Coming Home
by TheBatKid
Summary: One year has passed since the darkness was defeated, and not all is well on the shores of Albion. Does the answer lie in the Spire's heart? Or are they doomed to fail? One team must set out to stop this destruction. (Sequel to, 'I Warned You'. Reaver/OC.)
1. Fifty One Years

Coming Home

_Today has been an odd sort. Some of my more inhibited employees – the ones I haven't yet disposed off – thought they were entitled to a higher pay, just because of a small technicality! How am I supposed to handle 'back-breaking labour?' Such pains would surely destroy my lovely suits, although a tan would do wonders for my complexion!_

_Needless to say they are now dealt with, in a manner I thought most appropriate. So many missing person, recently! Dreadful that they happen to be in my workforce, but at least the job opportunity is often taken up. Too many hapless fools, enough to sink a ship; if I weren't so busy tending to other matters, I might be convinced to do something about it. Then again, that troublesome Paige has certainly caused a stir in my industries..._

_Our new King proved his use not a year back, when some tricky business about the darkness came up. A pity I wasn't here to witness since I've heard some absolutely riveting tales, mostly from men that can no longer walk, and even a few of those elusive details, the ones that others so desperately research. Perhaps my absence wasn't such an inconvenience, as it seems that the Millfield guards have handled things well. I might reward them with a new set of guns. Does my generosity know no bounds?_

_Troubling thought that a year has passed, and still Deprivation hasn't arrived. He vowed a good five decades ago, a promise that I have since discarded, that his leaving would only extend to the Crawler's death, yet I see neither hide nor hair of him. He hasn't troubled himself to find me – I would know if he did, as Reaver is hardly an unknown name and my residence is a marvel. If he were in Albion right now...well, I wouldn't bother to write such a tedious rant._

_His letter wasn't a piece I expected; "_**My Dearest Reaver; How do the bird's sing in Albion? Do they call the cries I have cried, or the screams I have screamed? Do they sail over our head, a monument to the fate's will, or perhaps they lay sleeping, until our hands are joined again? Worry not, for I am safe here, in my Spire and amongst my brothers. Remember my face – it has hardly smiled since I left, hardly moved an inch after our separation, and still I find it twitching to your thoughts. You are a puzzle to me. I await my return eagerly. Your loving Spire-Leader, Deprivation."**

_Does he think I care about the birds? Those pests are forever destroying my lovely fields, bothering my guards and generating such slack from my workers. Not a day goes by when I don't find myself imagining him, thinking on what he is up to and how those duties must destroy his natural good looks. Does he really believe I want to hear about the birds?_

_And his dishonesty! I didn't think he was capable of such lies – hiding the truth is surely my domain – and yet it seems I've been proven wrong. Deprivation must think himself the King of seduction, the concessionaire of beauty, although thoughts like that can lead to downfall. Does he assume I cannot be rid of these thoughts just as easily as he, and that I don't have a multitude of suitors at my beck?_

_I should have known of the man's treachery. I do not fall into the depths of love so quickly, and neither does any other noble; Deprivation could hardly be called a nobleman, considering a vow means very little to him. I'd go as far to say a gentlemanly agreement would fall upon deaf ears if he, the ever-captivating 'Spire-Leader', were the one to make it. My skills at detecting a liar must have become unpolished, perhaps even wasted when I came to his presence..._

_For Avo's sake, the lake is such a ruckus! I'd thought that mining would be a loud process but this is avoidable, surely? Don't they realise how important my beauty sleep is? Selfish peasants – they're never going to reach noble status if they don't consider these things...and also if they don't start bathing soon. Bower Lake's natural aroma has been somewhat tainted by unwashed bodies, filthy disease and mud, granted I scarcely notice it these days. In fact, it's just a hair's breadth that I hear it today, as I've acquired these absolutely wonderful new gadgets called, 'Ear-Buds.' My own design, of course; can't have them thinking I am partial to other merchants. My many fans shan't buy anything unless it's 'Reaver-approved' – who can blame them, really? – and I never approve something I don't get profit in._

_I was surprised to receive an invitation today. I'm cordially invited to the King's wedding, on the behalf of the industrial world, which is to be a black-tie event with an exquisite feast. A banquet that wouldn't be the same, lest the great Reaver arrived! Who am I to disappoint the masses, who have come for the wedding's formalities but stayed for my devilish good looks? I'm only concerned for the bride's well-being; she'd find it hard to upstage me, even in one of those royally selected gowns._

_The idea of a party...it's not one to be brushed under the carpet, not for social butterflies such as myself. I've been entertaining the idea of hosting one myself, actually, although my private affairs often end in even more private socialising. What is an exclusive party without little sordid happenings, after all? Those nasties that nobles like to deny, albeit they never deny an invitation to my gatherings..._

_Ah, Reaver, I do believe you've starved the masses enough! To Hell with Deprivation – he might be halfway to Albion by now, but you have waited long enough! It is time to have a little fun with your immortality; those Shadow Court priests would be disappointed if you were to change, 'turn over a new leaf' as it were, and take up more conventional habits! That man has taken five decades from you and in that, you have had so few bedfellows it's almost a crime!_

_It's time to have one of your social affairs! I can hardly wait for the festivities!_


	2. Welcome

The weather was a torrent as guests rumbled into Millfields, clothed in their glittering gowns and frocks. Bullet-like raindrops were captured for a second, each of their pelting forms immortalised by the lady's jewels and the men's glasses, which had been specially polished for this occasion. Imagine – Reaver was throwing another legendary bash, and he had invited all of the most important noblemen.

Whilst the ground became saturated, their devilishly handsome host was preparing in his room. That had not been left out in the arrangements; instead, with the help of his handy servants, the thief had transformed it into a near work of art, no more a resting place than it was a museum. On the cabinets lay a few choice guns, an assortment of potpourri and even his trusted Dragonstomper .48, which he had not used since that fateful day in Bloodstone. He thought back to that time now as he donned a fine waistcoat.

"What a splendid evening for a ball," one fabulously dressed lady droned, her hair put up to a ridiculous beehive fashion and her face covered by a mask, "Dear Reaver shan't be without praise tonight, since it seems he's done so well again! I wonder what brought him out of his reclusion? I haven't heard of his parties for a year, at least!"

"My darling, he's not thrown one!" the reply came from another man who had, for a large part of the evening, sat at the side of Reaver's home. He was amongst the perfectly arranged flowers, upon a seat made of fine silk and encrusted with emeralds, all the while watching this beautiful mistress arrive. If this gathering were to go as the last, the lord would certainly enjoy making her acquaintance...

"Not thrown one?! A horrendous crime, from one like him!" mock surprise, as if there were not rumours of the man's absence, "Aren't you curious as to why he throws one now, after so much time from his last? Perhaps he wishes to meet a suitor!"

"Maybe, dear lady, however we shall not talk of such wonders tonight! Come, sit with me, and tell me of your commitments!"

Back outside, the land had become desolate. In the distance sat a few other houses, mostly empty if not for servants, whilst there was soft candlelight beyond the horizon, dancing in harmony with the night's demands. Darkness crept along the quarry outside, although not a single worker still toiled within. Reaver had wanted them scarce for that evening's festivities – if he were to allow such ragamuffins, such rough-skins as his workers to continue their jobs, the thief would surely devalue the already damaged Bower Lake. He saw no reason to endanger his reputation.

All was still, peaceful and serene, with not a pebble set out of place or a grass blade bent. The silence was almost deafening...and then hooves.

Thunderous gallops could be heard over the quiet, like a sign that the very Gods had arrived. If it were not for the chattering of the guests inside, perhaps even the servants in their rush of duties or the clattering of the kitchen's staff, Reaver might have heard it. He stared out of his window, into the darkness that stretched beyond it, and wondered of all the places he would rather be. But he was a fine host; he would never disappoint the masses, especially not when he had invited them.

With a sigh he began equipping himself, clambering into a fresh pair of trousers whilst he checked his finely combed hair. The red locks were as thick as they had been before, more so after his renewal, yet at that time he cared little for their arrangement. They required a dye, a brand new colour so he could reinvent himself, keep up an appearance to the world outside, whilst inside he continued to exist as normal.

A tyrant, a deviant, a social evil...

The rain continued to pour as the hooves thundered, their noise becoming louder when they reached stone. They belonged to a fine black stallion, one who had been greatly cared for in his time, which whinnied and brayed whilst it clattered on the cobblestones. Upon this steed rested a cloaked figure – it was obvious that, despite covered by this ominous shawl, there sat a man, with his head bent downwards and his back straight. His gaze was set on the harsh lighting at the end of Millfields, where he had intended to make an entrance.

"You devil," laughed Reaver in his full-length mirror, chuckling softly during his religious beauty regime, "How could you keep them waiting for so long? You tricky thing; imagine their want for you! Your teasing ways will land you in trouble, don't you know!" He floated between the luxurious king-sized bed and large wooden bookshelves, as a single thought drifted leisurely in his mind. The kitchen staff had not told him what meal would be cooked; he wondered if he would kill his chef that night, should he make a miserable dinner.

Reaver's guards were sat underneath the statues, in a desperate attempt to keep warm whilst the storm rumbled. The valets were busy tending to his guests, their suits perfectly ruined by watery bullets; however they continued to feign smiles, speak formally and bow courteously, despite their chattering teeth. Who would host a gathering in such miserable conditions?!

"'Oi, Barney," the guard with a noticeably crooked smirk said, "See that, out there?"

His friend peered closely in the darkness, although his eyesight had not improved in fifty years, "What's it, Tim? 'Nother guest? Reava said ta leave 'em be; he don't want us talking ta the nobles."

"Nah, no' a noble – no carriage, see?"

"Hm, yer right. Pull the other one, Tim, yer no that's not a 'requirement' ta these parties."

Whilst the man spoke, he had not noticed the horse that was fast-approaching. Its whinnying screech was heard to late, its battle-cry echoed into the distance as they both thundered through, rider and steed. The guards were caught by surprise; it was hardly a shock that they both tumbled, their heads spinning after such an entrance. Valet began to flee the scene in fear, scared that this intruder brought with him death, when in truth it was the opposite.

Reaver gently donned his top hat upstairs, before he admired himself in the mirror. There would be no disappointment tonight since, with all respect to the thief, he looked absolutely stunning. His figure-hugging outfit showed off a marvellously slender frame, the candlelight from the walls flickering against his pale features, in addition to a wonderful helping of Shadow Court magic.

"Simply marvellous!" he chuckled as he leaned forward, and collected his thick white coat. He cared not for the chair clattering to the floor; this fabric had been specially woven by Auroran citizens, many years ago when he went back for a visit. That lovely priestess Penelope – the girl who had fancied Deprivation, once upon a time – fell victim to the ravages of age, with her once lovely features torn apart and weathered. They were a map of wrinkles when Reaver had last seen them and, after so much time, he could only imagine she would be worse.

Or dead. He cared little either way.

The cloaked figure brought his horse to the side, feeding it a lovingly stolen sugar cube as he did so. It was a long, tall frame he possessed, one that seemed to be highly sought after, and enough to keep the guards at bay. He received no opposition whilst he fed the steed, but there was little heed paid to that. He had not come here for a fight – he came here for a reason, something higher than himself. The nerves were alive in his stomach when he gazed, stared at the manor he had heard so much about, which was every bit as immaculate as he imagined. With its purple 'Reaver' banners, large windows, fine greenery and abhorrent use of public space, this man could not imagine anything more perfect. And it belonged to Reaver.

The thief straightened out his coat whilst hurrying down the hallways, worried that his lateness would play on the guests. It was a fact that the host should be a few minutes slow, perhaps even a whole hour (dependent on the party, of course) although he knew that he had exceeded that timeframe. Guests had time to mingle; in his tardiness, they had time enough to name their children!

With a great sigh of effort, the mystery man heaved off of his horse. Tied bravely to a post it brayed, begging to be let free and amble about as it pleased, however it would never go too far from its master. They had met in the most unlikely circumstances, once he realised that transportation was needed – the stallion thought there was never a braver rider, never a more exquisite man than this one, who had caught and tamed him in a mere few hours.

A puddle splashed under his feet when he landed. Small droplets leapt into the air, crying in joy when they joined with their rain-brothers, although they ended up in slightly smaller collections. He did not care for the wetness of his boots, or that the rain had thoroughly soaked his menial cloak; many miles had been spent travelling here and, as he sized up to the manor, he wondered what he would find within.

Reaver smiled whilst he raked his eyes through the crowd, which had fallen silent upon his entry. Noblemen, noblewomen and not a child in sight – surely a party for the Gods, rather than a few unlikely associates? He raised his arms to the air, his cane's diamond twinkling in the light.

The mystery man swept through the hallways, not interrupted by the fearful staff or guards. His cloak dripped behind him, with the same ferocity as the weather outside, although he paid little attention to that. He had not come to worry about the rain. It was a few more seconds before he entered the grand hallway, a place filled with the most repugnant of personalities.

"My dear friends..."


	3. Intruder

"I'm so glad that you were all able to make it, especially in such ghastly conditions," Reaver smiled at the crowd in front of him, oblivious to his intruder, "But a simple thing like weather wouldn't stop one of my famous parties, would it? I'd be a poor host if it did – imagine, all of my lovely guests having to leave, when they've spent so long on their appearance! And might I say, that you're one of my more appealing audiences..."

To the thief, every platform was a stage once he stepped upon it, every slightly raised hill he climbed a pedestal of perfection, although he had always preferred a more grand entrance. Every person had noticed his entering but, when they spent longer than a second to turn, he always regarded it as a failure. Whilst he stared down upon the audience he saw a hundred faces, ones that were painted to purity and yet, somehow, so devilish they could be a sin.

"It's true; he certainly hasn't changed," a lady smirked from behind her mask, the crimson fringe dancing to her breath. She was talking to her neighbour who, unbeknownst to the noble, had worn nothing in preparation for this, and simply wanted to be in Reaver's presence. The intruder shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other, with a hope that the formalities would end soon.

"Perhaps, although I have not seen him in decades," he muttered in reply, his deep voice like an earthquake to her ears, "To compare him to an ever-lasting rose, one that breathes fire and poisons bees, would be an unfit partner in light of his beauty." The lady's eyebrows rose but, since Reaver had since stopped speaking, she knew that the party was beginning. There was no wish to be caught in a strange conversation, especially with a stranger man.

It was then that a flurry of movement was made, as if a river of people had just broken free. The mystery man watched, mesmerised, whilst a flood of frocks and jewellery poured past him, moving to the rhythm of their own twisted desire. With no other option he pursued them, if only so that he could find a servant. He needed to deliver a message.

"You're not wearing the proper attire, sir," finally there was one, who stood with an undeserved sense of dignity in his regal suit, completed with gold clasps and several shining buttons. A thin moustache trembled ever so slightly on his lips, although he paid no attention to that.

It took a moment for the sea to die down, and when it did he struggled to find the words, "I am not of this party – my affiliation with Reaver is, to an extent, more sentimental than those present. May you take message up to him, perhaps a sample of my need, and I shall wait outside as to comply with the dress code."

There was no room for argument; this man wanted something passed on and, if the servant refused, he feared that his life would be jeopardised. With great reluctance he nodded, listening closely whilst the intruder whispered his message, not even thinking about going against him. Men like him always got what they wanted, no matter how long they spent incarcerated.

"I shall direct him outside, milord," he promised as they wandered down the hallways, which had been alive with chatter only moments ago. The nobles were in the dining hall, alone with their thoughts and the bodies of others, whilst the silence continued to drone in their absence, a lovely transition from the previous uproar. This intruder had not heard silence in a long time, not felt the comforts that came with a home. It was a pleasant change.

"Thank you, my friend," his reply was layered by gratefulness, as if he had become more humble in their chance meeting, "May you rest easily, for I have travelled a far distance. To encounter more obstacles would be a madness, one that I do not possess the energy for, and wish to neither cope nor compete with."

There existed a depression in his features, a sadness that had not been seen before. The faintest hints of tanned skin could be seen underneath, even a glittering of irises past the darkness of his cloak, although there was not enough evidence to say he was handsome. Only the sinewy body could be called that, considering it was obvious that there had been much preparation in it, and that he seemed to walk proudly despite his hardships.

Finally they reached the door, where his intruder quietly slipped through and sought after a vantage point. The garden was immaculate – such was the way when it came to Reaver – with a few rose beds here and there, dotting the feet of white marble angels, in addition to a silvery ribbon of lilies that ran through the middle. He followed it momentarily as he admired, watched the dancing moonlight jump between crystal lanterns, which seemed a beautiful yet inevitable waste. Even the pouring rain could not make him retreat, to hide under the canopy above the door.

"I see that not much has changed," a chuckle to himself; "Decades have passed and yet, it seems that he has not altered himself at all. Such wounds still exist in the soul, perhaps to remain for eternity; however, now, it is time for me to drag the embers out, and exist with those wounds."

Reaver was getting ready for another grand entrance when his servant came in, shivering like a deer caught in the lamplight. His white, ghostly appearance must have shocked the thief, caused some human emotion to run through him as he spat, "What is it, Winston? Can't you see I'm currently preoccupied?"

"There's someone to see you, sir," replied the man, although his voice stuttered, "He's waiting outside in the garden, where the guards can keep their eye on him. I don't know what it is about him, sir, but...but there's just something – I don't think I can-"

"Come come now, my boy," purred the thief in his patronising tone, "There's hardly anything I can't deal with myself, providing I've my gun at hand. You go and handle my guests, particularly those who have come a long way, and I'll see about this young man."

He cared little for his servant, granted his merciful speech said differently. Winston was a fine butler, of course, as not many could say they were in Reaver's staff at such a young age, although he did not know that thief truly wanted some more entertainment, which so far he had supplied. The boy was a clumsy servant.

But he had more important things to think about. Who was this intruder? Why did he have the audacity to interrupt his gathering, waltzing in with the grandeur of a nobleman, when in truth he possessed little more than a cloak? After all, without a name to go by, the thief thought he was a simple ragamuffin in search of a job.

He was surprised to find differently.

Upon entry of the garden, Reaver caught the black-cloaked man as he admired the roses. He saw the lucrative movements he made, the way that he stroked the petals with one finger, before turning to catch the immortal's gaze. A spark of energy rushed between them; it was like lightning bolts passed between their eyes.

"Reaver..." a movement was made to take off his hood, although it was stopped by his counterpart.

"Wait," he moved closer to the intruder, who by this pointed had not revealed a name, "Wait a moment." Their lips became closer, twitching as the rain poured down on them, but now Reaver did not care for his suit. The worry of his hair dissipated, died, when he was in this man's presence.

Suddenly, their ribbon-like lips touched. A bolt of electricity jumped from them whilst they did this, as if everything had transformed into clarity, the rain continuing their thunderous assaulted on the earth. The guests inside wondered where their host was but no one, not even the most free-thinking of them would think this, that he was on the lips of a man so cherished, it was almost incomprehensible.

"It's you," he breathed when they parted, and the hood tumbled down to reveal the man's face. Familiar details of tanned skin appeared, those captivating emeralds that burned within his eye sockets, as he smiled softly and narrowed them.

"I have waited for decades for this moment – you have fulfilled my wish," he whispered in reply.

Because there, underneath that stormy sky and with that inquiring man, stood Deprivation.


	4. Where I Came From

The party continued in Reaver's mansion; however their host was not present. He had taken his love, his Deprivation upstairs, to sit comfortably on his bed and tell him of the journey there, which had taken him a good year to complete.

"Backbreaking," admitted the Spire-Leader as he laid, his glittering eyes locked onto the thief, "I voyaged through the harshest weathers, made my way to Bloodstone on little more than driftwood and, upon arrival, I found you had vanished. My sword met the heart of the mansion's new owner – a one Mister Tolkien – before I set about on a new quest."

Reaver felt a slight stab of guilt, like it was his fault that Deprivation had travelled so far, "I've been subjected to great deal of change in the past five decades. My home in Bloodstone became tediously adequate, and I decided a change of scenery was in order. Surely my old bedfellows knew where I moved?"

Deprivation shook his head in reply, sparking much curiousity from his youthful thief. It had been less than twenty years since Reaver had relocated, a mere two decades and, somehow, his ruthlessness had been forgotten. He would be sure to change that soon, once his lover was properly settled.

"Nevermind about that, then," he purred whilst the leader uncloaked himself, "There's many more important things to discuss, what with your arrival here and my home unprepared."

"Your new mansion is a masterpiece, my love. Had I not seen your previous home, I might have claimed it to be the most beautiful I have laid my eyes on," Deprivation preferred the Bloodstone mansion, which had been close enough to the sea so that he could look out, gaze at the Spire he had left for favour of Reaver, and remember his brothers fondly in the distance. They would be swamped now but, under Solace's guidance, they would not be led astray from the Code.

The thief chose not to rebuke his words, as he understood how far the man had ventured, "And what do you think of my room, hm? Does it exceed your standards? I've added my own, personal touches over the years, including that lovely crimson paint – a good three thousand gold pieces, but it creates a lovely atmosphere."

He had barely noticed although he nodded his head, just so that Reaver would continue talking. In their fifty year separation the leader had longed, dreamt every night of his lover's voice and hoped it would return soon, in the case that he forgot its lulling charm. There they stood, alone in that luxurious chamber, and all he could think about was listening to him talk.

"I wished for naught but your presence, Reaver," Deprivation confessed, tumbling beside his lover on the mattress. Its soft form moulded to his shape, as if intent on making him comfortable, "The paint, the rain, the trinkets; these amount to nothing whilst you, my love, are the light of my life. If I were to sleep through eternity, than I would rest in sweet peace, for I was able to touch your face again."

With that they fell silent, content to stare into the other's eyes. There were conflicting thoughts – anger, confusion, trust and affection – although that did not matter, since they were finally together. Things would pan out for them, no matter what happened in the future.

So, the night continued on. The party became far more erratic than Reaver would have liked, alive with corruption and sordidness; however their host never arrived, as he was in the arms of his only love. Deprivation discussed the details of his journey, the fine lines that he could remember, granted that the thief only paid attention to Wraithmarsh. He listened closely when the man went into more minute expressions, going over his horrid experiences and the overall existence of Reaver's regret.

"Banshees," he eventually concluded, "They are to be exterminated if there were any justice. Such prying, fear-mongering creatures, with small contorted children that form at their gowns, in addition to their whispery voices. When I first encountered one I had slept, easily in a ruin that had once been a farmland, and drank from the well that still stood there. Perhaps I was subject to hallucinations? I have heard such things exist, particularly in isolated stretches of Albion."

"They are as real as you or I, Deprivation," Reaver calmed him, his eyes closed to listen more clearly whilst his head rested against the leader's chest, "Awful things, yes, but necessary. Imagine if there were no Banshees, no little nasties to kill off the fools, especially those that venture in a no-man's land."

"You think so harshly of my actions?"

"Don't assume I'm speaking about you, my dear. You're a stranger to these lands; shan't expect you to know any better, when you had no guides to aid you."

Deprivation's face stretched into a smile, the tanned features contorting to his grin, although he wanted to remain sombre. He wanted to give off an air of sophistication, despite how long he had waited for that moment.

He turned his head to their new room, which had been specially prepared for this occasion. Reaver had been sure that the previous style was transformed, lovingly equipped with shades of gold and crimson, whereas before it was inflicted with a greenish glow. The long red curtains were a monument to his grandeur whilst the candles, ones that flickered so innocently on his mantelpiece, were in place for more sordid transfers, in the case that a business partner was being quite despicable. Coupled with the crimson carpet were lavish bookcases (catching Deprivation's eye for his love of literature) and a beautiful fireplace, cleaned twice a day and lit during the winter time. It crackled with flames now as they sat, and watched rain splatter against the window.

"A beautiful touch," he muttered when he caught the mirror, standing on its own wooden legs, "You have a right to gaze at yourself. Hardly a day passed where I did not wish to; I am sure that you forgot my existence, and that my arrival here was a shock."

"You're overestimating the quality of my bedfellows," that was more of an admission for Reaver, a small confession that he loved the man, "I don't think you understand the standard of Albion, much less the rate I've had to lower mine. My dear – you're a practical masterpiece, compared to most men here."

In truth, the thief had met many a suitor. He had seen royalty, met adventurers and dined with nobles, although none of these men held a candle to his lover. They possessed no mystery to themselves and, in absence of that interest, Reaver had quickly cast them aside, thinking only of the leader as he did so.

"I am joyous you believe that," he replied, "but now, I grow weary. May I close my eyes for a moment, so that I can reenergise my flesh? This journey has been...it has taken its toll on me, my love."

"By all means, sleep. I wouldn't want you to drop dead from exhaustion now, would I?"

Deprivation smiled at his lover before laying beside him, one emerald eye directed at his face whilst he prepared. It had been a long time since he rested on a bed, particularly one as fine as this, and he felt some sort of ritual was needed.

"Sleep easy Reaver – may the sun shine down in the morn, so that we might welcome a new day..." his gloved hand took the thief's gently, "...together."


	5. Behind That Door

Deprivation slept in turmoil that night. It was all very well that he had returned – in all technicalities, he belonged with Reaver – although it left a void in his life, one that the Spire had filled. As he slumbered on that luxurious bed, dancing in euphoric unconsciousness, the leader knew that he would be rudely awakened soon, perhaps by a force he did not yet know.

In truth, he was very much correct. Something lived in the darkness of Albion, in wait for the return of a Spire-Guard. It festered in the very cornerstones of creation; there, it made a suitable home, and many of the residents had been touched at some point. Their greed, hatred, agony and mistrust came from this thing, which saw no quarrels in making a man weep.

Deprivation was the next on its list.

The night drew on, longing for the relief of dawn-break. Twinkling stars guided a few travellers on their way but, for the better part, were as pointless as a deaf man's earplugs. Moonlight dazzled the small puddles of water below, remaining after Reaver's heartless onslaught, clinging to the memory of a once-peaceful Bower Lake. Millfields had changed over their time, although not quite so drastically as in recent years.

"Be sure to scrub the living area," Reaver nagged at his night staff, who were already underpaid for their workload, "I've half a mind to replace you all now; let's not further my decision, shall we? People that disappoint don't tend to do well."

So they cleaned, and all for a man they had never met. They heard a few whispers from the guards, that a man with an air of mystery had arrived, granted rumours were not taken as pure fact. If they were, Reaver might have found himself quite blackmailed...

By the time the sun finally rose, all was spotless in the thief's manor. Pristine glasses were set down in the dining hall – now empty, since so many nobles had dispersed – whilst Reaver prepared nearer to his study, where he kept all his important hair products. Slowly, the immortal transformed himself, becoming not only an icon of beauty but, with the help of his thick toothed comb, a worthy suitor by anyone's standard.

"Hm?" Deprivation murmured in his slumber, sometime after the maid had entered, "Reaver? My love?" his head rose, an immediate frown on his face once he saw the woman. She did not belong in this room, this sanctuary that his lover possessed; his first reaction was to fight her off, as if she were some sort of diseased intruder.

"Master Reaver will be waiting," she muttered when she saw his gaze, which smouldered a raging emerald. Never before had she gazed at such a spectacle, one that was sure to fight against the darkest of foes, although she assured herself that he would be calm soon. The days in a nunnery had done her no favours for the thief's employment; in the space of a few short months, they had been confronted with the worst of human's nature and, after an even shorter evening, she found herself locked in a new battle. Deprivation's eyes never left her face.

"For what reason do you come here?" he asked, more confused than anything else, "Must a man write upon his sanctuary, so that others may not enter? Do the sacred words of privacy fall noiseless on your ears? Perhaps it is my fault – perhaps, after such a time away from Albion, I have grown desensitised. Where is Reaver?"

"In the study, milord. He's waiting for the chef to serve breakfast. Do you want to see him?"

"The time?"

"It's only six o'clock, sir. He'll not be expecting visitors for...I'd say about four hours, at the very earliest."

Deprivation rose from the bed, prompting the maid to turn quickly to her dusting. The man's face had been enough to scare her, without the thought of his strength, "My lateness has damned me once again; six o'clock? No matter for the time lost, as I assume my duties are few?"

"Duties, milord?" the maid's voice was laced with confusion, "We handle all the household tasks, including the cooking and cleaning. You're not forced to do anything." Deprivation could not fathom such a life, in which he was dependent on people he did not truly know, although he had guessed that Reaver was much different. The thief probably had scores of staff, all of them ready to carry out his orders and not get shot.

"A discussion with my love is needed, then," he felt a pang of loneliness, since it had not been so long ago that he saw his brothers. They had worked together on the 'household' duties, the care of the Spire, whereas in this world it was all too different, and the lower-classes were expected to clean. Their lives were dependent on the dust's existence.

"He's in the study, I'm sure of it. Just ask the butler where it is; he'll lead you there, if he's not trying to clean up," she was thankful when the Spire-Leader left, but only for the fact she felt fearful around him.

It must have been his eyes – they were beautiful of course, undeniable in their gorgeousness; however they held a hardness to them, something that both existed and did not, whilst his speech eluded a high intelligence. The fact that he possessed a six foot frame did not help the cause although, if she were to meet a different man like him, there would not be much discussion on his attractiveness. In fact, the only reason she felt so wary to Deprivation was for his beauty, and his apparent affiliation with the thief.

What sort of honourable person would want Reaver, after all?

As the leader walked, he felt a strange connection with everything he passed. The crimson reminded him of his ceremonial robes, ones that he had left in the Spire's chambers, and the golden fringes seemed to add an elegant touch. He loved the way each painting had a face, a story, even though many others would think differently.

"Ah, master Deprivation!" the butler he had met before welcomed, as if he had always been in their midst, "Reaver has requested your presence in the dining hall, before he arrives. I'm to take you there now."

The man's eyebrows rose, "I mean no disrespect; I would rather to go meet Reaver, in his study. Might I do this instead, and accompany him to the dining hall?" he was unused to their customs so, when Winston insisted that he come, there were no arguments to be had. They wandered through the long hallways in silence, something that Deprivation had missed on his journey. Not so much the silence, but the presence of another, and their need for absolute concentration.

"Through here," he eventually said when they reached a door, which had been embroidered and cleaned for the occasion, "Be careful of the new carpets...though, I suppose, you don't really mind that much."

_This is the moment I have waited for, _he thought as he stared, _behind that door lies my new life; behind that door, lies my Reaver's home._


	6. Breezes

Every detail was a wonderment to the leader. The crystal chandeliers dangling from the ceiling, the paintings that hung like a flurry of colour, the thickened air of sophistication; all of these things, coupled with Deprivation's nervous mind, were almost enough to drive him insane. So he stared for a while at them, in the hopes that his Reaver would arrive and they could sit down to dine. In his heart there was no desire to eat, but he would try for the sakes of his sanity, not to mention the gripping boredom.

There were a few jewels on the table, which were displayed in a rather beautiful glass bowl. Patterns danced around its clear edges, beauty upon blankness, whilst on the top existed a few expertly crafted frills – it was a genuinely exquisite piece, one that Deprivation had never seen before.

"You're certainly a fan of designer works, aren't you?" the chuckle came from the door as Reaver, donned with his finest silk suit, strode confidently into the room, "I'd be partial to buy some more if you like them."

"I am a fan of most things, especially when they are so beautiful as this," replied Deprivation, although he did not want to discuss such trivial things, "We might have the world at our fingertips but, in the case of myself, I thrive under masterful creation, and all that comes with it."

Reaver cared little for his little discussion; however they continued on with it, just because they wanted to hear each other. Their voices had been so long parted that they were unfamiliar, perhaps even forgetful of the other, which seemed completely impossible given their love. Stronger than the greatest of Avo's skills – the type that was written but never lived, since it would take the lovers and destroy them from within.

They sat in pointless chat for a moment, before the thief finally called an end, "Have you arranged your place here, then? My maids will happily do anything you ask of them; I've already tested them..."

"To ask your people such things would be horrendous. Believe my words when I say this, my love, as I cannot take advantage of these poor men without my morals taking damage – indeed, without my own heart breaking at their pain."

"You're far too lax with the lesser man, my dear," Reaver chuckled at his lover's naivety, despite his own experiences of such thoughts, "Anyone would think I'd be running a shabby operation in this household, should I take your comments to heart! Don't you fret too much about the maid's workload Deprivation; they'll do anything I ask them to, and to a reasonably high standard as well."

The leader cast him a forced smile although, deep within their hearts, they knew he would never warm to the idea. Ex-Wilbur knew that these people were not his to command, not his to order into slavery, granted that they had promised themselves to Reaver's service. Morals were a favoured aspect in his life.

"Enough talk of that, then," the thief clapped his hands as two large plates were whisked out, carried by a smallish man in a black jacket and dusted with gold flecks, "You've not travelled for so long to talk about the help, have you? You must be starving!"

Deprivation had not felt the pricks of hunger for years, since they had been dulled by his longing for Reaver. The food did not entice him now, not by any means, whilst he respectfully picked at the smallest pieces he could, making sure that he seemed grateful for the service.

And so, silence droned. It was not an awkward quiet – more so, a craved one, that continued on for hours with neither party's objection – yet, for some reason, they felt it had to be broken. The immortal spent a few minutes searching for a conversational piece, which would not give away his desperate adoration for the man.

"_Deprivation,"_ the leader looked up, confused why his lover had whispered.

"Yes, my love?"

Reaver raised his gaze to meet the man's, smiling sweetly at the intense emeralds, "I've not said anything."

"I heard my name," his head turned, "Like a whisper upon the breeze. It must have fallen from your mouth, when you were not listening to yourself?"

"The wind, Deprivation. Shan't be a problem after a while, what with your getting used to this place!" the smile that Reaver gave, coupled with the leader's already strong love for him, was enough to make his shoulders ease, and allowed him to laugh at himself briefly. He took serious expression too far sometimes, although he had never regretted this tendency.

"_Deprivation," _another whisper, albeit smaller this time. It were as if it had floated in absent-mindedly, meant for another Spire-Guard of the same name, and could be quickly remedied by a closing of the window. The man raised his head towards the glass, where he swore it was coming from.

"There, again," insistence, which the thief was unused to, "From that window; it mutters my name, as if it knows me from another life. Could my mind be disintegrating from my journey, or has my theory some basis?" Reaver wanted to tell him to stop but he found no words, since it had been so long that he was confronted with this. The nervousness that came from a lover, the need for comfort despite their ways – it was thrilling to experience it all again, this time with a more suitable partner.

"I do believe you're going mad," he purred softly to Deprivation, stroking his blue tunic's sleeve. The leader turned, a smile erupting on his tanned features and, on top of that, a happy glow in his emerald gaze. What did it matter if he heard his name? If it did not come from the lips of that man, he cared little for whoever else called it.

"Perhaps, but only for the years I have spent away," they both knew it was flattery, though neither of them said anything, "You are as beautiful as I remember; might we go for a walk, my love, rather than waste a morning like this?"

Reaver did not even think of his breakfast when he agreed, as all he wanted to do was be with Deprivation. The sun would feel good on his pale complexion, maybe even give him a tan, whilst he would be able to spend time with the man he loved. It was a perfect combination!

"_Deprivation, hear me..."_


	7. Simple

Outside, the world had changed greatly. Deprivation remembered a time when Bower Lake was luscious, when the trees whispered with sweet nothings and the grass whistled to the breeze – it lay transformed in front of him, a bitter shell of what could have been, whilst Reaver felt a strange pride for it.

"What manner of evil has come here?" asked the leader as they wandered, staring at the rows of gorgeous woodland, "Did my father…did the Darkness…?"

"No, love," Reaver's voice was a chuckle to his boyfriend, who had become rightly confused at the landscape. A light fringe of beauty existed above, touches of innocence in an exploited world, and below there was no longer a sparkling lake; rather, it was a cesspit of despair, trapping hapless workers and loaded with the stink of regret. How could the thief laugh at this?

Deprivation continued to gaze for a moment more, which allowed for his lover to get a good look at him. The eyes that he had fallen in love with – the emeralds of a memory, as he liked to call them – were slightly hardened, shielded from the outer shells of the worst torments. Bravely he still stood, that had not changed, although his posture held with it an air of deserved grief, wherein the leader hid and tried to block away harmful thoughts. A child had left that day, had left Reaver standing on those docks and wondering if he should see him again, and it seemed a man had returned. Deprivation had become admirable in recent years.

"May the Spire bless your Albion; should it flourish in the morn's light or a thousand days, my home shall shape it to a grand design," the leader's blessing was, in short, unnecessary, although the thief felt slight tugs at his heart. He knew that Deprivation wanted his success, sometimes beyond all other things, and there was a slightly childish charm that he still possessed to his wishes.

Reaver took a few moments to link their arms together, so some of the noblewomen would stop their stares, "All my doing, Deprivation. This lake was the perfect business opportunity, ideal for some renovation! Don't you just love the arrangements?"

The leader did not reply; instead, he simply smiled, dazzling the innocent passers-by and a few scuttling grass creatures. They continued on in silence for a while, quiet aside from the whispers of the breeze, until Deprivation's interests were caught by something else.

"That!" he turned to the sound of music, which softly lulled down from a gentle slope, "What sweet sound is that? Come, my love, come! I must see!" like a child he leapt, bounding up the hillside and leaving his Reaver to quickly follow. The leader pushed away overhanging branches, the ones that were topped with poison berries, whilst his lover simply shot them away from the path – after all, what self-respecting baron would bother with such tasks? To clear debris was the job of a lesser man, who had no hope of ever becoming something more.

"You're certainly a fast one!" the thief puffed as he raced upwards, completely in awe of his lover's speed. Hardly any man had managed to run up this hill, particularly when the steeper parts were reached, granted that the infamous 'Dash' might have taken up the challenge. It seemed that mystery marauder would have been the only man faster than Deprivation, had he not disappeared some years ago.

The leader called back over his shoulder, "Speed is the most basic of our skills! A Spire-Guard must be swift, in addition to his many other requirements. You shall learn of these later, my love; for now, the sound!"

Despite his educated words, Reaver noticed that he had not said 'music.' Could it be that Deprivation, isolated from all forms of civilisation, had never heard the sweet sounds strummed by a lute? Did his family listen to the waves crash against the Spire's feet, and never wonder what other noises could be made? These thoughts raged in the thief's head as he rushed, eager to be at his lover's side for this momentous occasion.

Suddenly, they stopped. Deprivation had reached the very edge of the hill, which dropped sharply like a cliff's face, and stared towards a large stone building ahead. It was layered by the gentle touches of purple, the softest strokes of golden glamour, although that was not the reason for his stares. The leader had remembered something.

Something that he had tried to block out.

"Don't fret now," Reaver's voice was scarcely audible when he reached him, since it had been so long from his running days, "It's no rival to our home, especially up close. Only unfamiliar men stare."

"That is not the reason for my gazes. I suggest that King Sparrow has since passed, as the years did slip by almost as if in a dream?"

The thief did not want to talk about his dead friend, whom he had become very close to during Deprivation's absence, "Yes – Sparrow is dead, and his son sits on the throne. Not a particularly noble King, but I digress!"

"His son?"

"An oddly named young sprite; we shan't be calling him by name, though, so there's no need to give it!"

"Does he possess blue eyes? Or perhaps a rebellious soul, which seems out of sorts for his status? Tell me, my love, does he exist in almost a memory?" Deprivation's questions, coupled by the near desperation in his voice, made Reaver feel slightly uneasy about it all. He knew that his lover had a hard time accepting the loss, but did Desolation's image still stay in his mind? The immortal could only imagine such a hardship, despite his own experiences in a previous life.

A few moments passed before he answered, "Why don't you see for yourself? Let's take a stroll to the castle! It'd certainly do my legs some good, and would put a smile on the mass's face!" he lived by that delusional belief, although there was no solid basis for it. True, some citizens did live for Reaver's existence, but there was a great deal more who would like to see him hang.

Deprivation's features became highlighted with a smile. With a hardened air the eyes lifted, as if such a simple prospect made his heart flutter, granted that this was no ordinary stroll. He would see what his brother had died for that day, so long after the vile deed.

"Let us waste not a moment, my love! Quickly!" with that he sped off, back down the hill and following an almost pre-determined beeline. Reaver laughed quietly to himself because, in the consideration that it was his first time, the leader would surely be lost in the assortment of machinery.

Could he have asked for a better reunion?

"_Run, little one, run…"_


	8. Brave, Intrepid

"The banshee glared into my eyes – not to look at them, but rather past them – and I trembled before it, stuck in a timeframe that seemed to never end," Deprivation shuddered as he told the story, which Reaver had been more interested in than he previously thought. The thief listened closely whilst he described the scene, his eyes closed and his breathing hard, although he walked the land as if he could see.

"Then what, love?"

Deprivation dodged a flying leaf before he continued, "Then it screamed, so loudly that I thought myself mad. Whispers came to life in front of my soul, and I could do nothing but beg for forgiveness; it made me feel as though I were an infant, suckling at my mother's bosom and awaiting my true destiny."

Silence descended over the two men, although it was a peaceful silence. The leader wished not to continue this discussion, no matter how unusual it was for a man to escape; however Reaver, with an interest that was dancing on immoral, pressed the matter for a while, until his lover began the descriptions again.

The air was serene around them, despite the stench of Albion that contaminated it. Bowerstone was just beyond the horizon there, just a few steps over the baby-pink fringes, and Deprivation trembled to think about residents. Silverpines, Mourningwood, his brief encounter with Ravenscar Keep – they did not paint the loveliest of pictures, or made him believe that any noble creature existed in that region. Surely his Desolation would care, should he truly be the essence of a Spire-Guard…?

"You're being frightfully mechanical," Reaver's voice cut into his thoughts, like an angelic beacon riding the breeze, "Has something upset you? Perhaps I can be of use! Point me to the offending piece and I'll ensure it never sees the light of day!" the thief cared for his lover's comfort, particularly after so much time apart. If the man ever felt the stings of discontent or, by some poor mishap, came across some of his boyfriend's more sordid lifestyle, Reaver would have attempted to put things right. That was more than he would do for most, after all.

Deprivation smiled, his tanned features stroked by the waning sunlight, "No, my love, there is nothing that offends me. You have been attentive in my desires and studious in my comfort; for this I thank you, and give you the only thing I have to offer."

Trees began to twist to the wind as he spoke, which was beginning to pick up after such a dormant day. Charcoal black clouds sluggishly hugged the sky, their slick black fingers a smudge on its paint, whereas the pair paid little heed to that, as they had been wrapped up in each other for quite some time. Rain smells danced with the breeze, in a precarious balance of control and rage whilst the men spoke, their minds absent from their surroundings. Who would pay attention to the weather, when so much time had been wasted already? Their immortal souls would only sustain if they were careful, and managed their days well in the presence of such change.

"Oh?" Reaver chuckled, "And what's that, love? Jewels? Gowns? An authentic Spire-Guard artwork? I've accumulated quite a wealth of things, you see, though I'm certain I could make some-"

He was cut off by a howl. It was no man-made thing, not a demon nor a devil's cry – if it were, he would welcome his friend to the discussion – but instead, belonged to the very elements themselves. Wind slashed against his pale complexion and, before they had a chance to react, rain poured down like a waterfall of bullets. Deprivation was rapid in his response.

"My love, here!" the thief turned to see him, curiously peeking at a conveniently placed cave, "Should it be that my ancestors watch us? This shall shield us from the rain, and the storm's blows cannot harm us within."

"A cave?! You really expect me to gallivant into that cesspit, not knowing what else could be in there?! Hmm?!" Deprivation's smile was almost as devious as Reaver's; his reply was no less.

"Perhaps you would prefer to stand and be soaked through?" the chuckle was alike to his boyfriend's, as if their one-ship had become something tangible, "I never thought you to possess a nervousness, Reaver. Should I stand with you, so that fear does not cause you to run?"

The thief's face became momentarily contorted, although it quickly relaxed again, "You'd do well to not repeat that, Deprivation!" with that he followed, allowing the man he loved so dearly to take the lead and admiring the cave's insides. The very mouth of this place was an odd sort, complete with a razor sharp, rock moustache and thickened by a strange green lipstick; it seemed as though it had been decorated, but by who (or what) was a complete mystery.

For the leader, it was just another new thing in Albion. The twisting ribbon they walked on was coarse, decorated by the most oddly shaped pebbles and chicken bones, yet Deprivation chose not to focus on that. He loved the silence that this place held – a creeping air of what looked like intimidation, and existed as nothing more real than unicorns. Such a way with things, this world possessed…

"Shouldn't we be linked?" Reaver complained about fifteen minutes later, in which his lover had already heard the bored puffs, "There's a good chance that you might fall Deprivation, and I don't think I'd fancy paying for the rescue!"

Where most would take offence, he simply smiled and thought how honoured he was for Reaver. The thief would have spent money on his escape, paid men to break him out of a prison and, even though he would not need it, there was a gratefulness for such things that he could scarcely describe. In the moment he was about to turn, another voice came into the air.

"Mummy? Is that you, Mummy?" his heart was instantly pierced by the cries, which were certainly made by a whimpering child, "I'm so tired Mummy; I'm sorry I ran away, please come get me!" Reaver cocked his head to one side, confused but not particularly bothered by it.

"It seems as though we aren't the only intrepid adventurers! A little one must have found her way in here," the thief's tuts ran through the stilled air.

Deprivation was far more concerned, "Have her mother no sense?! Young children should not possess the means to run, especially in the face of such a tempest! Where are you, child? Where do you reside? Speak, so that I might find you!"

Silence. For a moment, they both thought they were going mad, as if there were no girl and they had just imagined her voice. Then…

"Help me! Help me, please! It's back again!"

"Stay still, sprite!" the leader bounded up the ribbon pathway, "Let it not frighten you! I am coming!"


	9. Chaos Deprived

Deprivation had no natural inhibitions. A Spire-Guard did not need to fear the unknown, the perilous and untraveled, since it seemed nothing possessed the means to kill them. The only thing the leader feared – 'feared' being a generous term – was the discontent of his brothers, and how they had grown so used to unknown territories.

"Mummy! Mummy!" the echoes were enough to drive a deaf man insane, "Mummy, please!" she cried as though she were being attacked when, to the man's knowledge, nothing inhabited these dusty caves. He had seen neither ghost nor ghoul, danger nor trap, although his keen eyes were somewhat oblivious to other means. This little girl needed him now; whatever else could wait, even his beloved Reaver, who had struggled valiantly to gain speed beside him.

"Sprite?" he screamed amongst the dust, "Little one, be not afeard! Where do you hide? Let me find you, for I shall honour my commitment to mankind and, by the hand of my Spire, take you far from this place!"

Silence again. Deprivation was maddened by it. All through the cave it rang, louder than a bell clanging in Bowerstone, yet he found no reason to pay it heed. It was an absence of sound, nothing more than that.

He would not become a puppet to the maddened Gods.

A whimper sounded down a path, one that wound and twisted like a misshaped bow. If the leader were a judgemental man, he would laugh – surely, so would any nobleperson who came here. How did such a young child manage to get herself lost? Especially in a place like that, where the seemed to be only one clear direction and a handful of dead-ends.

However, he was quick to act, "Remain! Remain!" Reaver could not argue his case for the speed, as his lover had rapidly descended down the path and was almost out of eyesight. There was simply a rush of blue when he ran, the faintest shades of emerald in the darkness, yet nothing that the thief could properly distinguish.

Deprivation was careful not to lose his footing. It looked as though it had once been a road, a place in which merchants and raiders sold their goods, whereas certain aspects of it showed a long bout of hardship, like the half-mashed skeletons and a few precarious placed crates. Perhaps if a pirate had found his way here; persons who had more understanding of such things, rather than a frightened little girl.

The silence was deafening whilst he ran. For a moment, the leader considered himself insane, broken beyond repair since his Spire's departure, and that this quiet was more a reflection on his soul. It did not exist – he did, and therefore it came to life.

An unwilling puppeteer.

"Please help me, please!" it was shattered almost too quickly, "Please! I can't run anymore, sir!" he would admit that the child had manners, although not much more sense than her mother. Imagine, coming into such a place before a tempest, only to freeze and cry for her guardian. Did all children do this? Deprivation would have to rethink his desire.

Before she could cry again, the leader spoke softly, "Little one, your fears are for naught. The darkness no longer has a voice as your king, your dear king, battled for its speech. Cry not for the absence of light, but instead for my guidance. Where are you?"

Nothing. Quiet. He turned for a second, surveying the area around him although he quickly discarded it, since nothing could be seen past the black glass wall. A single hand was reached out to touch this thing but, for all he was worth, the leader pulled it back. Could there be a thing in this darkness? Nothing good could live there, wrapped up in a swath of shadow. The little girl was a figment of his imagination perhaps, just a mourning technique for his father.

Then his eyes met hers.

Blue, sparkling sapphires glinted past the blackness, twinkling so softly that he found himself immobilised, "Help me, sir. Help me!" he could do nothing for that moment except stare, and contemplate what she was saying.

"_Walk forward,"_ another whisper, "_Touch the darkness, stroke the absence. Are you not curious as to what I am?"_

"Yes..." the leader stepped forward as if in a trance, his mind swapped with images of his childhood. His mother was there, his father too, and around him sat the elder sisters of his order, who had been keen to betroth themselves. There was Solace's sister – the beautiful Bereavement – and even Desolation's most ancient of siblings. She had the face of a rattail but, to Deprivation, she was a friend and nothing more.

"_Remember the eyes,"_ the whisper drifted past his ear. The leader turned his head to see emeralds, his heart beating to the tune of his disgust.

Madness, anger, manipulator, heretic; Chaos. His father stood there at the side, with a smile that eluded comfort and an arm lain over Enlightenment's shoulder.

The voice caused him to ease though, as if some faint sense of mourning took over, "You are to be wedded with one, my Wilbur. Do you choose Bereavement, or the hand of Entrapment?"

"Of my honour I would choose none, as surely they are worth another's hand," he flashed a dazzling smile towards them since, after the day of his birth, he had rapidly grown to his father's handsomeness, "Although a Spire-Leader must decide, and I will hold this burden well."

What an arrogant youth he held! Deprivation could hardly believe that was once him, in such a time that he thought himself invincible.

Suddenly, the image faded, "_That hour has since passed, yet you have continued to grow. Chaos became inadequate in my crusade and his son...you, Wilbur..."_ the Spire-Leader sprang out of his trance, seeing the pleading eyes in the darkness. He leapt forward against the fading voice, which now seemed little more than a nightmarish squeak.

"Please help," the child whimpered as the man set to work, his hands in a battle beyond the twine enclosing her, "Mummy doesn't have much money but...but I can pay! My whole life savings! Two gold pieces!" he smiled beyond the uneasiness, since childish innocence was hard to come by.

His deep voice came as a shock to the girl who, by this point, had never grown close to a male figure, "Money has no use to me, little one. Should I save you this day, that shall be my payment."

Her limbs were fragile. Deprivation had handled Spire-Guard infants – those more gifted with strength – and it seemed that this experience did not aid him, as the girl was trembling like a leaf. Slowly, carefully he pulled her free, holding her body closely so that there was no mistake. She nuzzled into his chest whilst he did this.

"Thanks so much, sir! Promise to be best friends forever, thanks!" her enthusiasm, her youth; it brought a smile to his face, his tanned features contorted to the grin. They thought that that would be the end of it.

"_NO!"_ the scream was louder than Hell and the Spire-Leader felt a sting, like the familiar steel bite of a sword. Any howl he wanted to yell disappeared since the child still trembled, and he knew that there would be time later.

"L-Let us take the path," he encouraged softly, pain labouring his speech, "Reaver awaits. Come, child."


	10. The Truth

They escaped the cave shortly afterwards, and Deprivation was glad to be rid of it. The child mewled pathetically in his arms, as if she were a kitten rather than a girl, although he was happy for any type of noise. What else would he wish for, when she had just suffered such an experience? The strains were tampering his features…

"You're a tenacious little termite," Reaver muttered to their burden, "What did you think was going to happen, gallivanting off into a cave? I certainly wouldn't keep you in my possession; shouldn't expect your mother would either, after she's heard your misdeeds."

He was not truly angry with her, but with Deprivation for so valiantly darting off. It had been a worry that he would disappear – that his precious leader would be gone, never to return – and he felt as though his fear was spilling out now, in the form of viciousness to the child. He did not really mean what he said. Who would want to be laden with such a responsibility?

The thief was struggling to cope with his lover.

"Stay your harshness," he growled under his breath as they walked, through the muddy fields and against the harsh blowing wind, "Should you be so cruel to someone? I understand of your ideas, my love, but leave your mouth closed around a child's ears, or else I might find myself regretful of sorts." It was not a threat, although his speech would determine otherwise. Deprivation was simply tired after his encounter, which Reaver had still not heard about.

"I wouldn't want to anger your nobleness," the thief sarcastically replied, "After all, one of us should keep up a sense, shouldn't we?" he hated being scolded, especially in front of someone he deemed as 'lesser.' How dare Deprivation do such a thing?!

They continued on in silence for a while, the flat terrain of forestland turning into cobbled roads. Reaver knew that Bowerstone lay not too far ahead, cloaked in a swath of rain and storm clouds, before he wondered whether the girl lived there or not. She had not mentioned anything – perhaps she did live there, but concealed within one of the poorer stretches. He shuddered to think of the residents…

Deprivation did not think that far ahead. Instead, his mind was focused on the other things, such as where her mother would reside or what she would look like. He wondered for a moment if she would resemble the normal peasant women, who had their hair strapped into shawls and a dress that looked like soil. The renditions in his books would believe so.

"You must tell us; who is your mother? Does she own a home, or does she live in the slums? Tell me, child, does she possess distinctive features?" the girl could not understand the man's speech but, since he was so kind to her, she willed him to continue. Deprivation held a fatherly air that she had not seen before. It was refreshing to know that someone possessed such details.

Reaver quickly became impatient with her silence, "For Avo's sake girl, speak up, will you? Trundling through fields isn't what I had planned for today's entertainment!" she squeaked at his input.

"Mummy lives in Bowerstone castle, with Daddy! She's the seamstress there!" her cries echoed past the bullet like rain, which whipped their numb faces fiercely, "Daddy doesn't let me see her lots!"

Deprivation's eyebrows rose. He understood the term 'seamstress' – many of the Spire-Guard women had trained as such – although he was unfamiliar with the girl's arrangements. Her father lived in the castle too? When the only man that deserved to be there was the King, who surely sat upon the throne as dominant?

Perhaps her mother was a harlot? One of the male chefs would have been allured to her grasps, tricked into a pre-marital position and, when he thought his sins could not get any worse, she bore him a bastard child of no real heritage? That was the only scenario he could imagine where she was born, especially in such a vile state of Albion…

"Ah, yes! That's where I recognise you from," Reaver's voice suddenly became little more than a coo, "You're the ever graceful Charlene! Hello, child; how did you manage to stray so far from home?" it was truthful that it would be a task, considering the heightened walls and raised defences. If she were raised in the castle, then she would have learnt the harsh terrain within.

Deprivation made his way over a potholed path before he questioned anything, "My love, for what reason are you so kind? Moments ago you shouted at her, condemned her childish ways as something evil, and now you act as though she were a second daughter? What has happened?"

Reaver jabbed him hard in the sides with his cane, just enough so it would take effect.

"She's the King's daughter, love! Of course I'm going to be kind, if I want my head on my shoulders!" he hissed under his breath, "Would be a terrible shame if I, the great Reaver, were forced to pack up my things and leave!"

Charlene whimpered in his arms, interrupting the less-than-secretive conversation, "Daddy's going to be so mad! You're not going to tell him what happened, are you? He'll never let me go again – I'll have to stay in 'etiquette' classes all day! I don't wanna do that!" hardly the attitude of an eager young sprite, much less that of a princess. Many of the lady's would have been thrilled for such opportunities, the chance to better themselves in the case of possible husbands, yet she seemed completely disinterested in the discipline. It was perplexing.

But he could not stray away from the subject. The King had made a child, out of the arms of ceremony? The mother was not involved in her upkeep; rather, she was locked away as a seamstress, and deemed unworthy to raise her own young? How dare he act like that! Desolation's essence obviously held no priority, since he seemed so childish in his methods.

"We must press on," the leader growled to his lover, "I have harsh words for the King."


	11. From the Ashes

The room was plunged into darkness. It laid thickly around the lone resident, the single man who had been cast there, and left to rot amongst the crushing atmosphere. He sat there in misery, silently wishing this blackened world would clear, giving him sight after so long blind. He feared the light too much to welcome it. A great deal of time had passed; if he were to see that beacon again, then his mind would surely collapse under the strain.

"_You have kept quiet," _this voice had become his only friend, despite his hatred for it. Sometimes, he was able to ignore it as if it were not there - simply a figment of his imagination - although that did not happen often. Life had become a struggle for him.

If this was life, of course.

"Pray, leave me," his reply was a mutter, "Take your words and be dismissed, for my mind cannot comprehend you." The coldness seemed to envelope him tightly, the blackened glass in front becoming more a coffin than anything else. A gasp sounded; whether it was his or the voice's, he would never know.

A few moments passed, "_And where would you keep your sanity? Should I leave you to your own devices, our relationship would be damaged. I do not want my most skilled lieutenant to be distant…"_

What an offense! After such trickery on this voice's half, he was not sure he could control his anger. Time would heal his wounds, if time meant anything in this world. He did not feel the ravages of age. Then again, he never had.

"I beg of you, leave me to my suffering!" how could no one hear the passion? "You have taken my heart, my life, my love – do you wish for my sanity too? Take it, take it if it quells you, but I shall not listen!" like a thing possessed he swung, although there was nothing he could hit. The darkness simply seeped along his outstretched arms, a monument to their ever-lasting power, before he let a tear escape his eyes. They sparkled with a love lost, as if he had not wished to come to this place.

Who would have?

For a time, the silence droned on. He was certain it lasted for moments, but perhaps they were decades? Centuries? Millennia? How much time had passed? Was it even passing? Had hours gone by, or was it at a standstill?

What was he saying again? Oh, yes. Thoughts could become jumbled in this madness, especially with such limited sights.

"_He shall join us soon," _did it insist on taunting him? Was there no peace in this world, which seemed to be laced with pain and anxiety. Hmm; he had not heard those names for an eternity…

"You speak as though I am glad of it."

"_Perhaps – it has been many days since your humiliating defeat. You knew he would return. You knew the debt extended to his blood, whether or not you offered it."_

"The illusion you put to me was a death wish."

"_Still, it has been accepted. For my rewards, I required your life…and his."_

A single tear ran down the man's cheek, descending from his sparkling green eyes. They once glowed amber before, when he were little more than a puppet to the forces, and there was never a more remorseful time in his life.

He spent a few moments composing himself, "Do not take him from that world. You have taken me! Is my blood not enough? Was my soul not enough? Do you truly need the mind of he that I loved, and still do? You have destroyed my heart; my heart belonged to him."

Not much more could be said. The passion he felt for the young man, the boy he had known and loved, was naught compared to the bloodlust in this thing. It craved power above all else. Without the use of his puppets, it would never have the foothold it did, and could never hope for the control it possessed.

"_Let all else disappear – remember him as our gift, as you promised during your service. Is a vow little to the Spire-Guards?"_

What a remark! If the murky depths were not imprisoning him, he knew nothing that would stop him from an assault, "You know that a vow means all, but not when we are under mind control! You tricked me into promising his soul!"

Silence. Could it be he had the moral high ground? Was he, the imprisoned Spire-Guard, finally regaining some of his debate skills? Time would have fooled him, were he in a world with such strains.

"_You argue like a man with options," _it chuckled slightly, as if it loved knowing the pain it caused, before it slowly began to clear away the prison in front. The prisoner saw a sudden difference in his world; it came into vision, like an angelic beacon in the depths of Hell. Blackness was sapped away from crystal-clear walls, inflicted themselves with the mossy coat of age, whereas he found himself suddenly thrust upon a pedestal. It was a cold seat – had he a choice, he would have jumped down from the frozen stone.

Mesmerised, he watched as the thing danced around the hall, which seemed larger when in the light. Flaming torches lit on the walls, the soft dancing wisps in a frenzy above them, whilst he continued the quiet spectacle above, as if there was nothing else he could do. Never before had his 'master' shown such care; for what reason did he clear this jail now, when there would be no one to see it?

The black swathed demon suddenly turned, with an intense stare directed to his minion, "_Are you fearful yet, Crawler?"_ hot rage pricked the tips of his ears, his eyes burning with a smouldering intensity.

"Call me not that. That is not my name. That is the name of a man cursed, who lived in your grips. I am no longer he."

"_What am I to call you?"_

"Horatio – I have soiled the name of Chaos, and my son has surely hated my name for it. I wish to be Horatio again, such as my father Rendition named me, and my wife Enlightenment married me."

The thing hissed, like the thought of Chaos's previous life sickened him. What would it take to have one loyal minion, who would not regret his decisions and pine for the life he once had? It wondered if such a man existed. Perhaps the young one…?

"_I shall call you by the accursed name, then," _it sauntered back over to a bony throne, of which had been fashioned from the dead of his cause, "_Perhaps your boy shall do more for me."_

Chaos leaned forward, a rage in his eyes, "Deprivation shall never join your cause. He shall be strong, fearless, to make sure he has never followed my footsteps. You shall not take my son from his beloved. You shall fail with my Wilbur."

"_We will see, Horatio."_


	12. Agreement To Accommodate

The arrival was, at best, an unexpected occurrence. Deprivation's blue tunic was completely soaked by the time they entered, drenched in heavy rainwater and tired from the travels, although Reaver had attempted to find them shelter. The mewling kit Charlene wrestled in his arms, as if her skin burned from the rain's touch.

"There has been much strain in returning you," the leader scolded as they ventured into the courtyard, which saw a noticeable lack in security, "You should not scamper away again, especially if your mother prohibits such things. Where is your father? The king must hear my message."

Carefully, he placed her on to the floor, and allowed her to slowly trudge along. The cold mud squelched underneath her once-gleaming shoes; before they had been a polished black, prepared lovingly by her mother and a collection of maids. She was not allowed to work alone on her daughter's clothes, by order of the king.

Deprivation would be certain to correct such a crime.

"You'll notice that it's changed since you were last here," Reaver commented whilst they wandered, following the young child's path, "Sparrow added a few personal touches – pity that he didn't take my suggestions to heart, but I suppose perfection cannot be squandered." The leader smiled at him, although he was not listening closely. It was nice to hear the thief's voice after so long, talking about things that did not really matter and, somehow, making them relevant. It was a skill only he possessed.

Finally, Charlene turned into a large bedroom. Her glossy brown hair bounced around the frayed silk dress - a ruined garment that poor children would die for – and a small voice squeaked in fear, as if she had caught sight of a terror. Deprivation's eyebrow rose.

"What is it?" he asked as they gazed around the blue-coated room, which had been embroidered with gorgeous golden specks. There was a large bed in the centre of the room, moved upwards to rest against the window, whilst there were some flowing curtains to shield the sleeping beauty. Should a King own this bed, Albion-born or otherwise, he would be satisfied with every detail.

Reaver's embarrassment was non-existent; however, the righteous leader felt red hot. He knew of no reason why he should be there, in a King's room that held his moral misdeeds, and it caused an uneasiness within him.

Finally, the child spoke up, "Daddy's got his special sword. He's not going to be here until tomorrow; he's out hunting, with our new guards." She seemed so innocent, so young and so out of touch with the real world, which would only be destroyed as her years commenced. Her princess status would not save her – eventually, the very social class would serve as her demise.

"Then he shan't be of much use," Reaver twirled his cane in the air, shaking off the remaining droplets, "Can't leave you here either, not without a suitable nanny. Where's the maid responsible for that?"

"I had a nanny, but she was fired. Daddy didn't like her anymore. He'd adopted me from the orphanage three months later, and I never saw her again."

Deprivation's eyes grew wider although, for all he was worth he held his tongue. There would be time later to scold his aura-brother; right now, his rightful niece required a nurse. Only a Spire-Guard could work to such lengths.

Reaver was about to speak before the leader cut in, "Never fear, child, for we shall look after you. Where is your nearest accommodation, the temporary sort? I am sure my love and I can equip ourselves there, and your father shall not mind my arrival, since we are so closely linked."

She was surprised by this. Most guards feared to be near her, that the King's wrath would be great if they interfered, although many felt sorry for her meagre lifestyle. Fancy a princess to be so lonely that even her maidens were no help? Deprivation would be sure to come close to Charlene, as a good uncle should always take the child's upbringing. What sort of man would he be if he left her?

"Daddy won't…he won't…" her voice trailed away. Fear twinkled in her glittering blue eyes that, when looked upon closely, resembled his dear Desolation, "he gets angry sometimes, after I've disobeyed. He's never hit me! He'd never do that but…well, Daddy's shouting is scary. He fought a monster once – Mummy says he shouted him down!" the girl's eyes became more like a child's at that moment, with a twinkling sense of pride and magical abandon. She would learn to adhere to the princess lifestyle…but later.

Much later.

"Deprivation, may I speak with you a moment?" Reaver's smiled hid his rage, although to the leader it was all too clear. The subtle changes that lined his features were enough, the reddened hues to his pale complexion.

"Certainly my love; excuse us Charlene, we have important matters to attend to. Might I suggest you study? I shall collect you for mealtime." The leader felt himself dragged away, shouting out the last sentence as Reaver's impatience grew. What possible reason could his love have for such rudeness? Did he not like children, and want them to grow in a hate-filled world? Or was it a possible jealousy since this young girl – without any effort, of course – could take his attention away, as if the thief was not there?

They explored the castle for a bit, searching for a room that would sustain Reaver's fury. It was not until they found the spacious study, complete with a map-table and several glistening jewels, that the thief finally turned to his lover.

"Offering to babysit is not a task I had in mind, Deprivation!" he spat, the anger barely held back, "Only your second day in Albion and yet, you wish to spend it with the likes of these…these…lesser men?! Don't you have any foresight?!" what a normal man would mistake as rage, the leader saw as a barely contained jealousy. He smiled and kissed his thief's forehead.

"There is no need for anger, my love; I understand your concern, but I cannot simply leave her. She is my niece!" the smile stayed heavy on his face.

"She's no more your niece than you are my son!"

"If Desolation's essence exists within the King, then my brother he shall be. Upon my brother's child rests my family, and that makes her my blood," the sentence was unstructured, obscure, yet Reaver's mind took it all into account. He was right, after all.

But that did not mean he would let this go, "Fine – we will stay, until her father returns. After that, I want to return straight home and properly begin arrangements! Do you understand how much my manor must chance, if I'm to accommodate you as well?!"


	13. The Master of Chaos

That night, Deprivation awoke. He lay not within the arms of Reaver, who just moments ago was resting beside him; instead, he was on a familiar stone floor, and surrounded by the structures of his home. Had he dreamt that whole journey? Was he truly in the heart of his Spire, without the hand of his fair thief? His ancestors were surely toying with him.

"Wilbur? Do you still rest?" the leader's head turned, shocked at the voice he heard, "There must be clouds in your ears, my son. I have called you for an hour hence, and yet you still sleep soundly. Have your mother seen you?" it was Deprivation's father, standing over his alcove as he had done so many times, staring down with the hardened green gaze. This man stood at a good six foot two, strapped with muscle that his son could only hope for, although none of this made him a good leader. It was his simple personality that gave him this.

His words were not his own, "I am sorry, father. Our ancestors must think my dreams to be important; else I would have heard your cries and hurried forth. Do you require my assistance? Is it time to train?" such a childish perception he had – this would be a dream, and his words from the days of youth. Chaos smiled warmly as he clambered to his feet.

"You have received a tongue lashing before," the ex-leader chuckled, "And it is not an action I will repeat. Your sleep shall become no more a problem, am I correct?"

"My father; for leadership I would never sleep, should it gain me your place."

The smile fell on the man's tanned face, his eyes blazing with a terrifying wisdom, "Never speak of sleep in such a manner. It is a blessing that my own father did not receive, and one that we take as a necessity in our long life. Come now; there is much we must do."

As the leader started a brisk pace, Deprivation found himself lagging. His usually long legs were stunted, shorter, whilst his lungs did not take in the correct capacity of air, like he had fallen at least two feet over night. He raced after his father in a blind panic, although Chaos was simply talking.

"You have neglected to select a wife, yet we shall have time for that another day," he was saying as the child ran behind, "we must press on with your leadership training. I have heard rumours that your fears lie within schematics; might we look upon them again? If you are fearful for their existence, you must work to achieve complete knowledge."

Reaver had often mentioned Deprivation's speech, commenting that his way of talking was a refreshing sophistication, although he did not know that origin. Rendition – the leader's grandfather – was a rather brutish man, with the voice of a demon and the speech of a vagrant, and Chaos had worked to distance the Spire-Guards. At that moment in time, every one of his team spoke eloquently, as if they were attending a royal ball or dining with the King.

"I fear not a thing, even in the form of schematics!" Deprivation's brave comment made Chaos smile; however he knew it could not remain, "Show me the blueprints to the Spire – I should make short work of them!"

"A noble method, yet you lack tact. Come son; keep up the pace!" they bounded through the Spire, father and son racing for the master outlook, in which Chaos kept all his important documents. Deprivation noticed how vibrant the stones looked, humming with an energy that seemed almost surreal.

"It's the young leader!" a lofty voice echoed; immediately, the racing pair halted, Chao's arm over his son's shoulders, "You've finally got him to wake up, then?"

"Yes, my Lord," the blue tunic warrior replied as his master revealed himself. He was a strong man, adjourned with beautiful jewellery and a glorious array of garments, whilst keeping some sort of magical air about him. Deprivation saw that insane glint, however, that twinkled within the depths of his golden irises. It frightened the young boy, and Chaos knew this.

"He's definitely going to be a fine leader, when he's got his act together a bit," a large, dirty hand swiped over Deprivation's youthful face, which wrinkled in disgust. His father allowed one small gaze of rage to be passed but, for all he was worth, the man kept his position, knowing that the Spire had hand-chosen this Master. There was nothing he could do.

"Enlightenment and I shall raise him finely. Wilbur will take my place when the time comes – should you find a more fitting leader, my Lord, he should not be of earthly power."

The man's eyes opened. What had been his Spire melted, disappeared, diminished into non-existence whilst he survived, and felt the cool mattress rise beneath him. A blue tunic evaporated into the air and left his chest exposed, as it had been when he fell asleep that night, next to his Reaver and on guard for Charlene.

"You've been shouting in your sleep," a half-awake voice grumbled beside him, "I've half a mind to send you into another room, but I'd probably freeze without your body heat." Deprivation smiled at him weakly, although the darkness of this room was crushing. A great, cosy chamber lay around them, scattered lovingly with lavish furniture, which had caught the thief's most particular interests. If his lover did not know any better, they would surely have a falling out.

"My deepest apologies, Reaver, for I was dreaming on a happier time."

"Happier than in my company? I find that hard to believe."

"There has never been a more joyous occasion, yet there shall forever be those snippets of time," Deprivation's hand came to rest on his thief's, "Sleep again, dear love. We shall require all our energy for tomorrow, if we are to care for Charlene."

"You're caring for the child, Deprivation. I've had quite about enough of children, and I'm not even a father yet! Well…not a full-time one, by any means." With that, the leader was hit by one of Reaver's pillows, before the man turned over and attempted to go back to sleep. His lover moved more closely to him, an arm over his and his breath on the back of his neck.

"Sweet dreams, my love."


	14. Entitled

Another morning dawn, another early rise. Deprivation had managed to awake at his normal hour, before the birds were twittering and the squirrels scampered out from trees, so that he could gaze at the unmatched beauty of Albion. Something about the weak sunlight complimented it, as if there was nothing so perfect as nature's kindness to man. He watched whilst it highlighted every stone of the courtyard, every hidden masterpiece that festered in the corners, and enjoyed the silently transcending warmth.

"Milord; there's breakfast on the table," a maid mentioned before she rushed past him, her arms laden with a wet burden. Garments of jade, ivory and sapphire had been washed that night since, in the absence of their adventuring King, much had to be done for his return. The employees would suffer a thorough reprimanding if they rested.

But Deprivation did not know that. He did not understand the smaller details of Kingship, the lesser known facts that came with a crown of jewels, and thought that each little custom was a tradition of sorts. Much would confused him in his time there – if the Spire-Leader was lucky, Reaver might spend a portion of breakfast discussing it, as they would require a conversation of some description.

"You're not from near here, are you?" the refined voice of a noble muttered, who had wandered in sometime after dawn, "Not a native of Albion, then?"

Deprivation winced at this question, noticing that this lady seemed prudish of his presence there. The orange complexion she held was wrinkled, disgusted, as if there was nothing more distasteful than a man in a blue tunic, wandering the emptied courtyard on his lonesome. There was some sort of hierarchy he knew nothing about and, as a newcomer to this strange land, he was immediately on the bottom.

A pause came before his reply, "Not of the native Albion blood, ma'am, although I am born and bred to mankind. To what heritage do you hail?" she seemed to be baffled at his speech, like she expected some half-witted slur to fall from his thin pink lips. Perhaps not all foreigners were so uneducated, such as those strange Aurorans?

"The greatest land ever known; Albion, of course," she answered him with a slight indignation in her voice, "There's no better place to be born, especially to a family such as mine. I'm of the famous-"

Deprivation had quickly become bored of her biased speech, which seemed to hold little credit to her nature. She was tedious, malicious; if he were a normal person, born on the edge of social class and struggling with the chains of mediocrity, then he would probably look up to her.

But he was not a normal person. He was a Spire-Leader – born to the heart of something larger, and pledged to the will of something magical.

"You are of a family with wealth," he interrupted her mid-sentence, soon after she had gone into the descriptions of her father's operation, "As are many other women like you, married to a man of money or born to a parent of gold. Do you expect my admiration for such a trivial thing? What aspect do you hold to your character, other than that of your prosperity? Please, speak not to me of your immaculacy, as I believe we achieve such through hard training."

The lady seemed shocked; how dare someone speak so truthfully of her, when they usually bent to the will of her gold? How could this man – this fine man, with eyes like emeralds and a smirk like Reaver himself – challenge her perception of things, the perfect world she had fashioned for herself?

"Not a gentleman, I see!" her greatest insult, wrapped up in a high pitched voice.

"A gentleman is one who holds his tongue? Then, I am no more a gentleman than you are a lady," the smirk descended on his face again and, with a sense of pride, he began to walk back to the castle, where Reaver would surely be waking up and travelling to the dining hall. She stood there in absolute shock, confused that such a man could destroy her confidence.

Inside the castle, underneath a pile of blankets, lay the whole reason Deprivation still remained within its walls. Charlene had slept soundly that night; it was not often that someone stayed behind for her, as if they cared about her safety and would not leave it to the guard's will. How could a man she had never met be so kind, when her own father would gladly leave her in light of his ventures?

"Princess?" her personal maid muttered from the doorway, where she often stopped to start piling the clothes, "Princess? You're late for breakfast, you know. It's time you were up – not ladylike to keep your carers waiting." These people cared too much for appearances, since no one would condemn the girl for a 'misdemeanour.' She was only a young child!

However, she slowly raised her head from the feathery blankets, looking upon the skinny maiden as she folded the fabrics. There was a wide selection of her most beautiful dresses, in addition to a more generous helping of tiaras and necklaces. She would never have a use for these pointless materials; nothing came from a multitude of jewels, especially when she never went to address the public.

"Don't want to wear that," her complaints came whilst the maid prepared her outfit – a rather ostentatious gown of gold and red, complete with elbow-length gloves and a handful of rings. Maybe her father wanted to rid the idea of her mother, who could never dream of wearing such beauty? Either way, Charlene was not the type to dress in that manner.

"It's traditional for a princess to wear things like this. You'll get used to it, miss, when you're a bit older!"

"Wear-"

"No; the King has been strict about that, and I'm not losing my job just because you don't like a certain outfit. You're wearing this! That's final, now."


	15. The Adventures Of

Much of that day was spent within silent study, in a library that seemed too grand for human use. Deprivation had found a particularly interesting book – a one 'Cooking with Various Objects in Albion,' – and wasted the day away as he read the black and white print. Reaver heard his chuckles from further down the castle, where he took up a solitary desk to begin his legislations. Focusing on such a grim task proved difficult amongst the laughter; he had half a mind to visit his lover and scold him, although he thought better of it after a while.

_Why ruin his fun? _The thief thought whilst he penned away his worker's rights, _there will be plenty of time for scolding later, once all necessary precautions are taken. One has to wonder what he's laughing at, though!_

Charlene was also in the library, but for a different reason all together. She had become transfixed on this mystery man, this saviour of the darkened cave, and wanted to know every movement and gesture he made. The young girl knew that he was not of Albion; instead, Deprivation came from something more, as if there was another world that she had no idea about. It frightened her to think of such things. But he did not.

He was the Cave Warrior, after all.

It was a while before the Spire-Leader noticed her presence, clinging to the side of a dusty worn bookcase like a prowling monkey, her eyes trained on the man's face. There was a slight pause between them before he reacted, which caused the stale air to still once more. It was crushing to be in this room for long. This pair had managed to remain in it for two separate reasons – for Charlene, to watch her beloved hero; for Deprivation, to partake in his literary loves.

His voice boomed through the age-weary room, "My child, why do watch me so fiercely? Do I instil fear? I implore you, come to the lightened part, so that I might look upon your face." Her childish giggle was enough to tell him that, even though he did not fully understand why, she did not want to abandon her hiding spot. She wanted to stare at the leader some more, before he chose to ignore her and return to his reading.

Silence descended on the room again, and with it came a light blanket of dust. Two pairs of eyes clashed silently, sapphire on emerald, bringing forth a fusion that would likely blind mortal men.

Deprivation flinched; this girl was no ordinary princess, not by any means.

"If your heart truly tells you to hide, I shall not entice you from your location," the dark-haired warrior chuckled uneasily, "Might I rouse your interests, then? There is a wealth of books in this place."

With a great sweep of his arm, Deprivation gestured towards the bookcases, stacked so high that they seemed like wooden skyscrapers. Boring books of brown, black and beige lined its otherwise mildew covered shelves, as if a shabby queue of aged soldiers, each without a commemorative medal to shine on their lapels. Charlene had never looked upon books in a kind light, although her attitude changed as the warrior smiled.

If he loved the novels so dearly, perhaps she could as well?

With a cautious hand, she stroked one jagged hardback beside her, speaking in a fearful tone, "Father doesn't let me up here. He said Uncle Logan – the bad King – was up here a lot before my grandfather died, and he started to change after. Sometimes Mummy says he's crazy, but other times she says he's right. I don't know what's true."

The idea struck a nerve for Deprivation, who had often heard his parent's arguing. One memory stuck out most prominently, on a night some days before Enlightenment's death, on which she had challenged her beloved's most abhorrent viewpoints. Screaming, shouting, the threats of death…even the most hardened warrior would break at its remembrance, so Deprivation felt no shame in the twinges of heartache.

"The King has experienced the power of novels; unfortunately, he sees only the catastrophe it wields, rather than the bounty of a new creation. Come, here," the warrior reached up to the highest shelf, where he had concealed a most ancient of books. It was so old that the pages threatened to crumble at his touch, wheezing out a page worth of dust as he carefully thumbed through.

"What's that?"

"A story that my own mother told me, once in my infancy," the child prowled cautiously from her hiding place, her eyes fixed on Deprivation's burden, "An ancient tale; it oversees the adventures of Mr Roark."

"Who's that?" Charlene took a place beside her hero, on a rickety chair that seemed no more a splinter.

The warrior smiled as she did this, "A simple merchant, young one."

"That's boring!"

"Ah, to a child who has not read the story. Merchants brave all perils to collect their stocks – Mr Roark is one such a man, although his stocks are often buried in the deepest of dangers."

The child's eyes widened in her curiosity, but still she refrained. There would likely be some type of moral message, locked away in those crumbled pages and dusty words, which she did not take too kindly in reading about. Enough messages were in her life already, without the voluntary addition.

Deprivation was quick to see this, "Upon my honour, young maiden; should you read this novel, I shall not let the knowledge that you were ever in the room." An enticing offer, and one that Charlene readily took up. How would her father react? If he knew she were in there and not on her throne, many days would be spent in solitary reprimanding.

And so, with a giggle that seemed almost intended, Charlene took the dusty book from her hero's hand, speeding off in the direction of her bedroom. Deprivation watched her joyfully from where he stood, a slight realisation that she suddenly revered him. Children were so simple in their natures.

It was then that an immediate weariness came over him. So abrupt was this emotion that the warrior staggered back, catching himself on the half-broken armchair below, breathing so hard that he thought his lungs would burst. His emerald eyes were overtaken by a swath of blackness and, for a moment, he could see nothing for the mysterious fog.

"_My son!"_ he heard a cry in the distance, although he could not see the screamer, "_Release him, Corruptor!"_

"_Never! Your child has been bound to me by blood, by __your__ blood."_

"_Let his innocence be preserved, for I am still restricted as your servant!"_

That voice sounded familiar, as if Deprivation had heard it before; however, in a dream. Coldness snapped and bit at his suddenly frozen appendages, whilst a shriek sounded somewhere in the darkness. Where was he? Why was he here? This sorcery was capable of only his grandfather, who had perished many millennia ago.

"_I shall see that your days are numbered, Corruptor!" _on that note, the weariness subsided. The warrior regained his acute senses, feeling the flow of energy run through his veins as he stood. It was a while until he found strength enough to flee, and even then he thought on what to do next.

"There you are!" Reaver's voice made him flinch when he entered the dining hall. A frown fell upon his lips, "What's the matter, love?"

Deprivation managed to force a smile, "Not a thing festers in my soul, my love. May we go for a walk? I feel suddenly claustrophobic." Reaver gazed about quickly, looking at the wide-spaced dining hall and all its polished furniture. What could bring on such intense claustrophobia?

"And you're not deceiving me?"

"On my sword, I tell you nothing that might lead to misinterpretations," came the reply, masked by an emotion the thief could not decipher. He stared for a moment at his love's blank expression, watched as it twitched and furrowed under his gaze, before a decision was finally made.

"Let me collect my walking things, then, and I shan't be a moment. Meet me by the entrance in ten minutes," with a head held high, Reaver began to sashay through the glittering mahogany furniture, like a flesh-clad angel in such a paradise. Deprivation stared after him with a smile on his face, which he tried to mask when the man turned round, "Oh, and love?"

"Yes?"

"Don't let's bring Charlene."


	16. Arrival

On that very same morn, somewhere near the Albion docks, a boat was breaking free from the horizon's clutches. Its majestic wooden hull festered with barnacles, starfish and the creatures of water, whilst its inhabitants looked little more than battle weary children.

"Morning, accomplices," greeted a cheery voice from the background, which defied his mud-clad exterior, "Something's stuck in my rifle – started to use peas again instead of bullets, and it's not proved to be the best idea."

The familiar blue eyes shone in the sunlight, gleaming an oceanic colour that most people could only dream about. His foolish escapades were expected by the men now, even celebrated, as they had been the single constant thing on their meagre vessel. If Ben Finn were to change that, it would surely lower what little morale they had left.

"You've managed to break another gun, then?" a gruff voice from the upper deck barked, despite his usually gentle nature. It belonged to a man only know as 'Captain'; he had no first name, according to several sailor stories, since his mother was a drunken prostitute and his father was a simple farmer. One brave lad had gone so far as to claim they could not afford a name, although this was disregarded to be a childish rumour.

"Break is a specific term, Captain," the soldier replied with a smirk, "I'd use 'totally unbreakable unless in Ben Finn's ownership.'"

A smile fell upon the hardened man's face, which had long since been crusted by a serious expression. The weathered features he possessed cracked, contorted and wrestled with each other to stretch, forming something that looked similar to a grin and yet, so alike to a lion bearing his teeth. With a heavy hand he turned the wheel, and the ship turned to face the grand isles of Albion.

"We'll stop here," he deduced as the men glanced at each other, "It's about time we resupply, anyway. Ben's going to get a job and earn some money for his rifle – his own rifle, which we won't be responsible for – and the rest of you can take some time out. See the sights, meet some girls, before we head out on another voyage. Might take a while."

It seemed a harsh punishment to Ben, although he did not argue against it. Imagine buying his own rifle! There had been no greater triumph than a man arming himself, and when that man armed himself by his own pocket…well, it was certainly a victory to the once-poor soldier.

On the docks themselves, Deprivation had just arrived from his walk, Reaver dragging himself haphazardly behind. What would it take to tire a Spire-Guard? Drugs, poison, an opera? If his beloved continued like this, the thief wondered whether he would be able to keep up.

"There is a ship!" an excited cry came from the leader's mouth, which gave hints of his wonderment to Albion. Reaver could not understand it sometimes, the way everything was so excitable, and yet he found a smile on his face whenever his beloved cried out.

"That tends to be the case," the laugh was soft, "It's not called a dock for no reason, Deprivation."

"I wonder what it brings? A shipment for the poor, or perhaps something more substantial? Let us see!" with a speed that normally belonged to an animal, the leader sprang forward and bounded down the barren hillside. Reaver could only watch as he rushed towards the docks, scuffing his boots when the mud turned into sand, smiling like a wild thing whilst he approached.

There was something charming about the smell of the sea, something familiar for Deprivation. He could remember a time when things made more sense. When the whistles of the wind were through his Spire's rocks, the barks from the lips of his ever-strengthened father and the love – the love he received from Reaver – came from Enlightenment, his gentle mother, who had gone through such pains to give him life. An idyllic image of his play came to mind, when he had spent the afternoons toying with broken things and awaited the 'endurance' trials of his youth. What he would not give for those times back; he loved Reaver, loved Albion, but things would never amount to his younger days.

The ship was pulling towards the dock at a rapid speed. Each man on board, including Ben Finn was anxious for their arrival, as it had been almost a year since they last visited their home. Wonders of the Kingship, the landscape and the Crawler's dead arose in their mind, so intense that they were almost unbearable, although they were deeply excited to see their grand home.

"Right, lads, I suppose our expeditions are over for another month?" Ben laughed as he braced himself on the ship side, as their Captain had a bad history of 'parking.' They had tried many times to explain to him, to teach him how to effectively dock the ship and reduce the amount of injuries on board, but he was determined that a little practice would fix all of his problems. The man was headstrong.

The man was going to kill them all, one day.

"You've got to look towards the future, Benny!" Captain screamed whilst he grappled with the steering wheel, like there was a tempest above him rather than clear skies. He always insisted that the future was the most important thing in the world; however, Ben had to disagree, since he believed the past held some notion of significance to it.

How prominent was their rich history? It still lay about them now, in tattered ruins and a rebuilt Spire, which glimmered with new life as it sat on the horizon. Something seemed slightly off there…

"My love! It comes to the dock at such a speed! Surely no man would have such haste, should he be satisfied with supplies? My mind befalls their water barrels!" Deprivation called to his trailing boyfriend, leaning forward on a half-ruined dock and staring forth. His smile still sat on his face, although slightly less inane now.

"Give it some time, Deprivation – these men couldn't be anyone important, now."


	17. Spire

Solace leaned against the wall of his Spire, breathing out a sigh of exhaustion. Around him bustled the work of the day, the toils and struggles that his men went through, whilst their Spire-Master sat in her silent studies.

Glistening beads of sweat formed on his head, sparkling for a moment before they fell, towards the cold stony ground beneath him. The Spire-Guard's thoughts were clouded these days; he cared little for the daily duties and, instead, found himself in concern for his brother, who had left to make his life in Albion. Could it be that Deprivation was in trouble? Could the brave leader – the man who had mentored him – be in some sort of predicament, of which only another could understand?

"Brother," Absolution said as he shifted a great shard, "Your expressions have been vacant? Could there be a problem, perhaps, or do you simply require rest? Please, Solace, tell me of your fears, as no Spire-Guard shall suffer in silence." With a hand pressed against his chest, the man looked up sweetly at his new leader, who had regularly called upon his aid throughout their life.

Solace allowed a weak smile to filter, "Naught is the matter with me, Absolution, although I am fearful for our leader."

"You are the leader now. He has abandoned our cause."

"Your words have no basis! Speak not such slander, else you may find yourself in dishonour of our Spire," a hardened stare came to the man's eyes, quickly evaporating once he thought upon their situation, "he has not left us; rather, he will return, once the time comes and brings him. I am frightened he has run into troubles."

As he spoke, the men began to walk through the familiar halls of their home, the twisted and gnarled routes as memorable as their family's faces. Solace was in a world of his own – a world where, despite his brilliance, he feared for the unknown, and pondered on his brother's wellbeing.

Absolution allowed this silence for a moment, whilst he too thought of the leader. He had been angered at Deprivation's leaving; he should have stayed behind, to protect them and their loving Spire as he had promised. Birth rights were far more important than the heart's desire, which was interchangeable as time went on…but, thinking such things cause a tear to his eye, as if there was pain locked in his brother's leaving. Perhaps there was? He would never distinguish his feelings.

Soon, the silence had to end, "Then brother, what makes you so fearful? Surely Deprivation is capable of his own welfare, and should not hide a trouble from us?"

"His relationship with Reaver may skewer his thoughts," Solace explained whilst trampling over broken stones, his confident strides no match for his worry, "Upon my thoughts, I first dismissed them to childishness. Perhaps jealousy inflicted them – another childish thought – but, I feared for him, and my letters have not reached his residence. I have sent them! Bloodstone does not heed my calls."

Absolution was shocked. They had promised Deprivation that they would not call him back, not for any reason other than Spire-Guard business or a happy ceremony, yet Solace had broken that agreement. Did no leader pay heed to his integrity?

"Solace-!"

"Do not chide me for my fear!" the man was quick to silence his brother, "I contacted him and begged for his return, although these methods prove fruitless. Does he not hear my cries? Am I doomed to worry for him?" no one had seen the innocence of Solace, the hints of immaturity that he still possessed; however now, standing beside that man he called a brother, the leader seemed to be breaking as if he were made of china, the finest silk that sat upon a child's shoulders. He did not just wish for Deprivation's return – he wished for his brother's words, and nothing more so than an acknowledgement.

They continued on for a while longer, passing the small alcoves they deemed bedrooms and the hanging 'chandeliers' of broken glass. It was a shame that it was not the original construction since, as a rule, it had been carved with the words of their ancestors, lost to the will of the Great Collapse.

It was a great time before either of them spoke again. Even when Solace did open his mouth, it was only to confirm Absolution's fears, "We must leave the Spire again, brother. We must search for Deprivation."

"You speak as though we are to agree, Solace. Many do not wish for what you offer."

"And if our leader is injured? If he requires us? Would you rather we abandon our morals, our brother – he is the man who built us, Absolution, and you would happily bid him good riddance?" the pain in Solace's eyes was apparent, like he could not bear to hear such words. They were not proposing that their dear brother was no longer leader, that he was not worth their time and had ultimately sinned against their order, but their minds had to remain on the Spire. For what reason did it request their leaving?

"Your mind wanders from our cause."

"Your mind wanders from our brother."

A challenge. Solace squared himself up to his new deputy, in a way that implied they were now enemies until he agreed. Absolution's eyes bore into his friends', each of them locked in a never-ending stare, each of them insistent on winning this war.

But eventually, the deputy did break their gaze, "Speak to our master, and ask her thoughts on this nonsense. Do you not think our brother to be capable?! You are foolish, Solace, which is a dangerous trait in our work." With that he disappeared, off into the distance of their Spire's walls and to do his other more important duties. Solace called after him in reply; did he not care? Did they not think that their brother, their Deprivation was worth the struggle?

They had deviated from the true love!

He collapsed, almost weeping as he remembered. It was not for the miscommunication that he feared for his brother; in fact, it was quite the opposite, as it was for a communication that his worries came about. Solace had been a victim of a dream – there was searing pain deep within his belly, there was darkness that crowded him and, most notably, the glinting emeralds that could only belong to Deprivation, staring maniacally into his own sapphire gaze. What else could he think?

Their leader was in danger. The Spire would have to care.


	18. Bargain

Deprivation sat upon the docks, staring out at the magnificent vessel. He had watched as row after row of man exited it, equipped with strange guns and silvery uniforms, whilst beside him Reaver pondered, a thought set out on where they had come from.

The thief knew these men, of course; they had been part of the Royal Guard, before Logan was overthrown and the crown taken. Each man possessed his own nature about him, his own questionable loyalty, although none seemed to favour any ill will towards the Captain.

Only one face was recognisable to him – that of Ben Finn, whose sandy locks glinted golden in the sun.

"It's been months since I've seen him!" the chatter was directed to Deprivation, granted that he was not listening, "I suppose that the life of a swash-buckling crusader hasn't proved fulfilling?" a laugh fell from the thief's lips, disturbing the air of serenity that lay thickly around them.

The beach had become one of the most natural areas of Albion, with not one manmade monstrosity to taint its golden glow. Where the ground had been ploughed, tampered with and conquered, the sand had risen to survive again, its world undisturbed by that of the humans. How would they feel if the beach were to disappear? Deprivation had admired the sea for all his childhood and, yet, it seemed that it possessed its own destructive ways, as it continued to leech almost unseen shingle.

"Don't look now, fellas," chuckled Ben as he brought another 'haul' down from the boat, which was a simple crate filled with barnacles. His shipmates cast a quick glance towards their small audience, compromised of a hated man and his recent beau.

"Looks like Reaver's got a new lackey," muttered one with chestnut hair, "Poor bastard; doesn't know what he's in for, with that old…"

His voice trailed off when he caught sight of Reaver's gaze, which seemed to burn into the deepest part of his soul. How did the man always know? When someone said his name – no matter how quickly or quietly – he knew, and that usually meant that a life was on the line.

"You'd do well not mention my name in such close proximities!" he called from the docks, where Deprivation had paid absolutely no attention to him. The thief was becoming rightly confused; his beloved often poured over him, fed his ego to an almost unbelievable standard, whereas he sat silently on that wooden bench, his eyes glued to the scene in front of him and his words non-existent.

Who were these men? They wore silver uniforms, ones that were peppered by the mud of distant lands, and their eyes betrayed an almost horrifying past. He could see it now, twinkling in those crystalline depths – a terror that they could scarcely imagine, alive within the minds of their brave.

The things they had seen would haunt them. Graves would be cold with thoughts of the innocent.

"Sorry, sir!" a fumbling cry from the chestnut soldier, who had suddenly turned into a cowering boy again. It were as if the thief instilled fear in everyone he met, the brave and the weak, although this did not surprise his lover. Deprivation would grow used to the customs of Reaver.

A smirk fell upon the immortal's pale face, "Just as well, I suppose. It's never proved convenient to kill soldiers; so many questions! You'd think that they were…" he trailed off when he realised Deprivation's transfixed expression, directed at one of the shiny sea barnacles that layered the floor.

"You have to forgive my distance – it has been a while since I saw newcomers," his voice was riddled by sadness, like something had reminded him of a time…a time when he was with his brothers and the only newcomers were the seagulls, who squawked with inane news, carrying scars on their wings.

"There's no rush to leave, you know," Reaver began tactfully, "But I'm sure the King's returned by now; in fact, I'm sure of it. Royal hunts don't last decades, Deprivation, and it feels like we've been here a century." There was a pause, in which the Spire-Leader seemed to ponder on his fascination with this ship. What made him so interested in it? Was it the fact it held untold secrets, or was he simply missing the Spire? Perhaps this leaky old thing could take him there, where his brothers were working hard and the Master sat in her studies, silence reigning supreme.

"Very well," just as they began to get up, Ben Finn set up a brisk pace towards them. His usual cocky smile had worn away, replaced by a serious gaze whilst he approached the men.

"Reaver, I believe you owe me a bet!" he announced in a strong voice, "A hundred gold pieces, if memory serves. Remember it?"

"I assure you, my bets have been paid in full," grinned the thief in reply, "That's not to say they ever stay with the gambler, but I suppose that's not what you asked."

"Still, I'd like to collect my earnings! I've got a rifle to buy!"

"Certainly – remind me what our bet was about, and I'll be sure to point out your misinterpretation!"

"Him."

Ben raised his dirt encrusted hand, pointing straight at the leader's tanned face. His eyes remained directed on Reaver's face, but the conversation seemed to be now centred around Deprivation, who stood dumbfounded between them.

"Him?!"

"Yep; you, me and Wally had that bet going on, about your engagements!" the words did not serve the 'friend's' memory, "I wagered that, by the time I came home, you'd be the profiteer of a new bodyguard."

"Bodyguard?!" Deprivation exclaimed, glancing over at his beloved thief. What were these men talking about? Did they not know that he was not a bodyguard, but rather an integral part to Reaver's life?

A grin fell upon the immortal's face and, with an almost giddy skip, he span his cane in the air, "I think you'll find that you owe me money – this is simply my new partner, Deprivation!"

Ben's face became highlighted by shock, which faded quickly into a shade of curiousity, "What do you mean by…partner?"


	19. What You See

Back at the castle, Reaver was proven to be correct. The King had returned to his 'humble' abode, bringing with him a whole army of dead things, and looking forward to boasting about it with his most trusted advisors. There was no thought for his young daughter, how she felt seeing the Balverines littered on the floor, although ideas like that rarely troubled the self-serving man – after all, she should have been grateful for him. He made her the perfect princess.

"Hello Charlene," he murmured absent-mindedly when he passed her, his brown goatee thick with mud and his hair slicked by oil, "New dress? It looks pretty on you."

Her small mouth opened to reply, even after the King had dropped his equipment and rushed towards the bedroom. How could he have forgotten something so important? It must have been a spur of the moment; the former revolutionary would never have left it, should he have been thinking clearly.

"It's here!" the exclamation frightened a nearby maid, who had just finished folding his lavish wardrobe, "Thank Avo! I thought I'd lost it on the trip!" out he came, his hands filled with a glittering diamond necklace and his eyes maddened.

Charlene had seen it before. The piece of jewellery sent shivers down her spine, forming nightmares in her head that she could not cope with; however, her father saw it as necessary, since one day she would be the owner of that fine thing, her neck heavy with its burden as she reigned supreme. Perhaps then she would be more adequate as royalty. She needed to learn to love such things, like they were her own flesh and blood.

All people would adore her. Charlene the Queen – it was only a matter of time.

"My mother wore this when she married my father," he explained for the umpteenth time, forcing her to follow whilst he strode towards the throne room. Familiar blurs of grey passed by his face as he did this, since he had forgotten to demand new banner fittings and neglected to equip his guards with proper guns.

Such is the price of loyalty!

"I know Daddy," her reply came as little more than a squeak, "She had a really long life with my granddad, before she died a peaceful death in bed. You told me before."

"It doesn't seem like you pay any attention! You're never going to be a good queen if you don't listen to me," he said before smacking his shoulder, to bat away any offending Balverine fur whilst they strode. Charlene watched intently as he did this; sometimes, if she paid close enough attention, her father would stop the incessant nagging and be proud of her. Rare were those moments, although she lived in hope.

The hope that, one day, her mother and father would be united again. Her fears would be over for the future and the King would accept she was still a child, incapable of making such large decisions for Albion. What a wondrous time that would be!

Suddenly, she was dragged from her thoughts, "See? You're not listening to me again! Sometimes I wonder if I'm wasting my breath – you've got to start hearing my words, Charlene!" they reached the decision-room, where the King quickly passed her the necklace before ascending his throne.

This spacious place was rightly deserved by him, as it was that man who had usurped his brother and, in the process, saved over two million lives from the hands of Crawler. If it were not for his brave escape that night, many of the Albionians would have perished. Charlene looked up to her father in this sense; he was a war-hero, if not an admirable parent.

With a great sweep of his hand, he dislodged some lingering mud from his crown, "You're listening to me now, yes?" she nodded quickly. "Good."

"Daddy, I have to tell you-"

"Not right now, Charlene! Stop trying to change the subject! There's some planning to do for your birthday party, isn't there?"

"I don't want one, but-"

"Nonsense! Every little girl wants a birthday party! Once the Balverines have been cleared up, we'll invite the Royal Party Planner to dinner and make some arrangements. How does that sound?"

"But, Daddy-"

"It's settled, then! We'll call her tomorrow," he smiled for a moment, a hand flicking more mud from his blue uniform. Suddenly, a frown transcended on his face, and he gave his young 'princess' a hard stare, "You're not wearing that dress properly, I've just realised. The belt's twisted. Fix it, Charlene; I'm not letting you be seen like a poor girl."

Like a madman she rushed to correct it, trying to fix the small offense that he had caught sight of. Whilst she scrabbled with the challenging fabric he became weary, furious even at her attempts, his fingers a mantra of condescending glares as his young daughter stood there, as fearful as she had been of the guard's swords or the assassin's guns.

But that is a story for another day.

"Sir, there's another-" this guard was cut off almost as quickly as he had appeared; as if he were a small child, the uniform-clad man turned and scampered off in the other direction, followed by a booming voice that the King knew well.

"Come, my dear man! Surely you're not a coward?!"

A sigh passed the King's lips, before he found strength enough to abandon his throne and seem regal. The baron smashed through the doors not a moment later, quickly followed by the familiar face of Ben Finn and another…a stranger, yet with a face that tugged at some sort of memory. A moment was spent cocking his head to one side as he gazed at this man, who's mouth had suddenly stretched into a smile.

It certainly was a distinctive face. Equipped with hardened emerald eyes and a skin made out of tanned cotton, this man could have been regarded as attractive – beautiful, even, should he have found the presence of a Queen. His terrifying height stood about a head above the King himself, the posture so exact that it could be deemed unearthly, whilst his smile betrayed an almost innocent truth about it. Whilst he thought this, he paid no heed to Deprivation's movement towards him.

"I remember you," he said, as if in a trance, "I remember you from somewhere. Who are you?"

The leader's face fell for a moment, "Do you not recognise my face? Am I not memorable to you, brother? I would have thought…"

"I told you not to get your hopes up, Deprivation," Reaver sang at the other side of the room, twirling his cane on the ground, "We've no idea what the man's been through – fighting all those awful, nasty little beasts, who, by the way, are under my protection!" with a sharp gaze he stared at the King, making him quiver slightly. He had forgotten Reaver's other worldly connection with those Balverines.

"Get your hopes up about what? Am I missing something here?"

"Do shut up, Ben. I've just about had enough of your questions; it's not doing my headache any good now, is it?" like a fay the thief put his hand to his head, signalling for Deprivation to come and support him.

"You do not remember me; to be expected, as my Reaver has told. I am Deprivation – the leader of the Spire-Guards, and the mentor to you…once upon a time," the emerald eyes seemed to dull for a moment, like he remembered something that he had not thought of. Deprivation could think for years on his Desolation's passing; it had affected them greatly, without any hope of recovering from such a trauma.

Such is life in servitude to the Spire.

"What?!" he exclaimed. This must have been some madman! Who had allowed such a person to wander the castle, so close to their precious royalty! He could have been hurt! Charlene could have been hurt! His staff could have…he did not even want to think about the possibilities!

"Lay your weapon! Allow me to explain!"


	20. Explanations

Deprivation stepped back from the long mahogany table, where he had been sat in deep explanation. Each man who made his acquaintance – the King, a butler named Jasper and Logan, the King's brother – seemed to be baffled by his description of things, the events that led up to their births. If he were not with Reaver who was deemed sane, they would have thought this man to be under the moon's influence.

"You're telling us that our father…he was not our true father?" asked Logan, running his gloved fingers through disappointingly short hair, "Is that what you're saying?"

"I have not said that, nor do I believe that to be the case! If late King Sparrow were not your father then, in every sense, your brother would have been unable to defeat the Crawler," Deprivation replied as he paced, unsure of what to do next. He could feel Jasper's aged eyes boring into him, although he dare not turn to face the blue depths.

That moment, the King decided to jump in, "I'm certain that I killed Crawler by myself, friend! My father was dead when we faced this problem; if anything, suggesting he's responsible has disrespected him!" with wild eyes he glared at the leader who, by this point, had struggled not to chuckle. Such viciousness! He would not have experienced that in his Spire, in which every man was humble towards him and dutiful in their manner.

"I have not implied the deceased responsible," his voice was dampened by a laugh, causing Reaver to smile slightly as he poured more wine. The crystal glass in his hand glinted from the streaming sunlight, so carelessly allowed to decant through the large arch window beside them, its blue silk curtains draped loftily over two oversized chairs.

"Then what have you implied?"

"Naught," he replied, "but the idea that you are part of me, as my brother's essence flows through you. Imagine – a line upon a line, a tree connected through chains of vines and hatchlings, and that is how you are linked to me."

"I don't understand? Is my brother the only one linked?" Logan asked whilst he sat forward in his chair. It gave a slight groan of discontent under his weight, the sheer bulk of another more a burden than anything else, granted that no one paid too much heed to it. If the chair did not want to do its job, it should not have been embroidered with the finest blue stitching and gold lettering.

Deprivation threw a smile at the curious man, "You are Desolation's essence too. In any case, Logan, I would have thought you to be my father's killer; you are the eldest son, I presume? For what reason did you step down?" a tender subject, however much good that the leader meant. How was he to know the delicacy of what he spoke about?

Reaver allowed another smirk to descend on his face. With great pleasure he watched the men around him turn rigid, their chairs synchronised squeaking like music to his ears, whilst his beloved sat patiently beside him, so unsure of what he had just asked. How else could this be more perfect?

Were there any butlers in the room…?

"That matter…we don't much talk of it, Deprivation," Jasper explained tactfully, in words that he hoped would reach the leader, "There's a lot of…details, which might be misinterpreted. In fact, there's quite a few things that could be misinterpreted; best not to get into it, really!"

The man's eyes flooded with a confused look, like he could not conceive what reason they would possess. At first, he seemed content to stare – first at Jasper, then at Logan, the King, and finally Reaver – all the while his emerald gaze shimmered in curiousity. The thief smiled before tapping his arm.

"No matter, love. It's quite the tedious tale, rather dreary, if you ask me; there's no point in boring you senseless now, is there?" he seemed sincere in his words, that Deprivation would be uninterested in such a topic, which made the leader drop it rapidly. After all, what self-respecting man would want his time wasted?

Not that Deprivation's time was limited.

"Very well. We might discuss other things, perhaps, such as your young daughter? Charlene, yes?"

The King's eyes became sharp for a moment, although not for the obvious reason, "You speak properly…that's not normal, not from Albion and surely not the Spire. How old are you?"

"Old enough to be silent," the answer came as a snap, since Deprivation kept his age close to his heart. This man need not know his age – for what reason, other than possessing a prying ideal, did he have to ask such a thing?

"That's not answering my question."

"Does he really need to?" Reaver cut into the conversation, suddenly alert about the treatment of his beau, "There's nothing I detest more than a prying eye, your majesty, and I'm sure you're not one of those ghastly people?" blackmail, perhaps, as the thief knew exactly how the King behaved and what his mind worked towards; however his counterpart could not allow it to be known, especially not to his tyrant-born brother and his loyal servant. Reaver had more pull than he should have over royalty.

"Charlene's my daughter, yes," a change of the subject, "she's…her mother died, a long time ago. I've been trying to make things better, teach her things that her mother should have, though it's hard to do. She's hardly acting like a princess."

Deprivation's eyes smouldered as the King spoke, but only for his blatant lie. Did he truly believe he could deceive them so easily?! Was there a tattoo on their heads that read 'foolish'? The leader opened his mouth to challenge him, although was quickly hushed by his beloved.

Whilst their 'host' continued to talk about himself and his struggles, Reaver took the opportunity to part wisdom, "A very small fraction of what royalty says is true, Deprivation. You're going to have to learn how to…well, perhaps not keep your tongue in your head, as I'm sure we'll find some use for your words!" a smile stretched across his pale complexion, causing the man to smile as well. He liked to make his suitor smile.

Suddenly, Reaver's face became blurred. The speech that had been so chilling – the King's account of his wife's supposed death – started to fade into nothingness, and Deprivation found himself struggling to breathe. His gasps echoed around the room, at first irritating the men that sat beside him, until they realised how much trouble he was in.

"Deprivation?" the muffled sound of Reaver's voice came to ear; he could see the man's blurred lips move, although not to his sharp eye's extent, "Deprivation, are you alright?"

The chair seemed to give way underneath him – quickly, he found himself falling, drifting down into a cesspit that he could not escape, and the tunnel-vision he suffered grew even worse. There was a flurry of movement around him but the sound…the sound had vanished from his ears.

"_You are mine, young Deprivation…"_ that voice drifted from the silence, "_Give yourself to the darkness…"_

"Deprivation?! Deprivation!" the sound reappeared. Like he had suffered a minor lapse in sense, the leader felt every trained, sharply honed skill return to him, as if it had never truly left. Reaver's face faded slowly back into his crystal clear vision. It seemed fearful.

"Forgive me…I was overcome with a weariness," he lied, hoping that his lover would take pity, "might we go back to our home, Reaver? My…I am not myself, I fear."

The thief looked at him with a worried expression, nervous that something might happen on their journey but, at the same time, having a wish to take him back home. The doctor could check him over there…perhaps it was a good idea!

"Of course. Let me send for the royal messenger, and there shall be a carriage shortly," Reaver hurried to the door, and turned back only to call, "Shan't be a moment, love!"


	21. Frozen Ink

There was no place quite as cold as Deprivation's mind. Where most men would hold his dearest memories, his own was twisted and gnarled in pits of regret; it were as if he was nothing but a walking disaster, born only to wreak havoc on a land that needed none.

Swirling a glass of pure red wine, the leader circled his new accommodation. The room had been situated to his needs – namely, he possessed a sword rack that sat at twelve shelves high, in addition to a great number of chests and cabinets to store his non-existent wardrobe. Walls were painted in his fondest shade of blood red as were his carpets, each hanging chandelier a sign of his new social status whilst he, in the fashion of a Spire-Guard, thought that these possessions were hardly necessary. What use did he have for a King-sized bed?

One of Reaver's commodities; there was not a particular need for it but, if the luxury was on offer, he would gladly purchase it. What reputation came at the price of such a thing? What status did he pine for, when only the rich could see the rich?

With a sigh he put the drink down, like there was no point in alcohol indulgence. His mood was fearful when he circled around the rug, the circular fabric that had been touched by gold, and there was not much else on his mind save the Spire. He had no need for these things – from birth, he had been raised in the simplicity of life, just so that he could serve the construct and all its possibilities.

Wonderment had sat with no place in his time. Deprivation was a Spire-Guard; no other thing could have been more blessed than servitude.

"Evening sir," greeted a maid as she sashayed in, her arms heavy with Reaver's burden, "Lovely night for solitude?"

"As each passing day comes, I realise that my solitude only worsens," he replied, watching out the window whilst she began to fold the clothes. Small creatures festered in the barren pits of Bower Lake, their forms a silvery silhouette when they rushed in open spaces, their eyes shining orbs as they bent towards pools of water. He smiled slightly when they did this, as if it meant something to watch nature…nature in a world that was unnatural.

"That's a grim outlook on things, milord!" her voice was coated in affection, the sort that a mother carries towards another's child, "If we all thought that way there wouldn't be much to look forward to! As my mother said, 'Smiles keep the world going, even when times are rough!'"

"Your mother was a true woman, Mrs…?"

"Missus? Oh, no milord – I'm not married, not even betrothed." Her smile continued throughout her speech, like it was not a shock that her fair hand was captured, or that her soft featured face possessed no man to accompany it. Like a child, he gazed at her beauty for a moment more than he should have.

Then he replied, walking towards his maid slowly with a twinkle in his eye, "Perhaps the men to this world are sightless, for I have not seen a single man at work nor one with sense enough to claim you." Her pale complexion blushed under the makeup, which Reaver had issued to his more attractive staff in a bid to raise his reputation.

"You're too kind, milord," she replied before her tiny feet turned to him, "There's not much that can be done, though; Mr Reaver's employment forbids fraternising, and the only men I know are from this building!"

"Allow me to speak to my beloved; should I be unable to convince him, then all hope is lost for your marriage," a laugh escaped Deprivation's throat, like he enjoyed the thought of challenging his Reaver instead of supporting him. He cared little for the woman's happiness – sometimes, when he toyed with the idea of inspiring a verbal battle between them, there was a sudden thrill of rebellion down his spine.

"Well, Mr Deprivation, I'm glad that he's chosen you as a suitor!" another smile descended upon her face, again when the leader took her gloved hand in his. With a gentle peck on her appendage, he bowed in a gentleman fashion, before turning to face the window. She took this opportunity to gaze at him.

Not an unattractive man, by any means. Reaver was forever the type to receive what he did not deserve, and Deprivation was just another thing on that long list of possessions. For whatever reason that thief possessed – love, hatred or spite – he did not require the leader's hand, so he would certainly not go chasing after it. At least, that was what she thought.

What she did not know that, masked underneath his casual attire, the mystery man had very much disappeared. His usually glittering green eyes had turned into a glowing amber, a feast of pure rage as he gaze out at the land, feeling the urge to naught but destroy it. What creature could fester within this destruction? What man could watch as his beloved nature crumbled, died under the weight of his own greed, even when that man was Reaver?

"Milord, dinner will be prepared soon. Should I send the butler to fetch you when it's done?" the maid asked whilst she gathered her empty washing basket, which had materialised from the shadowed part of his room. Deprivation stood rigid for a moment, before shaking his head.

The amber dissipated from his emerald, "Hm? Oh – yes, surely, send him to my chambers when the meal is prepared. Reaver?"

"In his study, milord."

"Excellent, then I might meet him before supper is served," he smiled at her over his shoulder, "May I inquire as to how I can help? With the arrangements of the household, of course."

"Under express orders milord, not to let you work your hands. Mr Reaver told us that we'd hang if you did anything, even you asked, so we've been ordered not to do anything stupid," as she spoke, the maid disappeared out of the room, leaving the folded clothes in his near-empty cabinets.

By the time she left, Deprivation clutched at his throat. There was something happening to him; something that would change him, alter his normal personality into a thing he abhorred, and there was fear in his eyes as he began to tear at the blue tunic. What could have happened to make him so…different?

"Pray to my ancestors…" a gasp cut from his mouth, an exclamation unlike any other, which alerted other servants not to disturb him and tell Reaver of his discomfort. Deprivation stared, suddenly terrified of his own reflection in the full-length mirror.

There, displayed in the contours of his chest, stood a black mark. It seemed as though someone had spilt ink on him – the mark continued all the way to his stomach, where it had branched into separate sections, not unalike to a tree.

"My ancestors…protect me…"


	22. While the World Sleeps

Logan stood rigidly in his room, his mind reeling at the news. Two days had passed since their encounter with Deprivation, a man who claimed to be four thousand years old and, yet, possessed such youth that he seemed twenty. How could he have possibly known Sparrow? How could his brother have solidified their birth?

How could Logan be anything more than a failed King?

Rain splattered against his window pane, fogging it slightly as the man stared out. Small pinpricks of light could be seen in the distance, amongst the tall constructs that had been humble homes before, whilst flecks of starlight were effectively blocked out by the machines. Machines that he had allowed. Machines that, if it were not for his corrupted, desperate reign, would have never existed.

Perhaps his father meant for this? Perhaps he was destined for downfall, and his precious baby brother had forever been bound to the throne. There was no doubt that dear King Cherokee – or Daniel, as he preferred – managed the daily affairs far better than Logan did, possibly due to his connection with the people. From where the ex-monarch stood, surrounded by lavish furniture and well-designed fabrics, no remnant of his tyranny existed, burning from the people's memory as quietly as his own fire.

With a sigh, Logan leant towards a silk-lined chair in front of him and collected his coat. Familiar soft fabric hugged his figure when he put it on, reminding him about the first time he had bought it; a sunny day in June, on a walk with his elderly father and the ever-eager young Cherokee, who did not have a cynical bone in his body. That same coat had been on offer upon a passing gypsy's caravan and, in an effort to honour his father's origins, Logan had purchased it, which made the old man smile before commenting on the snuck fit.

Sometimes, the most simple of memories could make him smile. Sparrow had been a beacon to his people, to his citizens and his a-socials, whilst still being a father to the boys he loved so dearly. If the ex-King could have lived his whole life without knowing Deprivation, those memories that he adored would have been better off for it.

The air was bitter outside, stinging with a frost that had yet to come and tainted by the smell of rain. Logan's hair was soaked whilst he walked the stone balcony, in which he had stood as a child to admire the growing world – the world that frightened him, and yet made him so excited for his own reign. Back then, the pinpricks were like massive orbs of yellow, their glow more fiery than the sun, whereas the constructs that blocked his view were naught but humble businesses, each with their own problems and paying a fair price to their employees. That was before Reaver though, and long before he had sold his soul.

The soul that belonged to the Spire, it seemed. A gloved hand reached forward to caress the frozen banister and he sighed, like the thought his childhood was a taunting menace. It kept him awake on occasion. That night was one such occasion, and he feared many more were on the horizon.

_Father would know what to do, _he thought sadly to himself; _he'd know what to say to put things in perspective. There's so much I needed to learn from him before he…before he left us. That's why I wasn't a noble king. The finest teacher I could have hoped for was lost and in his place? My tavern waitress mother! She wouldn't have taught me…not…not to the standard he wanted…_

Many people labelled Logan as heartless, emotionless…downright cruel, in short. Their eyes were blind to his suffering, to the fact he lost his only mentor at the tender age of twenty, in which he was truly beginning his descent into manhood. The Kingship was destined to him and, should he have had his father by his side, the man would have been a fine King who loved his people.

Yet, if Desolation was truly in his blood, could it be that the Crawler was too? It would make sense in a non-Spire-Guard way, since they were so closely tied together in their little home; Crawler had been Deprivation's father at one time, which implied that he had been Desolation's leader. Why must they be linked to the death-bringer, a force so evil that it had destroyed Logan's reign and tainted his brother's coronation, not to mention brought chaos to Aurora?

Poor Aurora…another place that Logan had failed, and one more world that had no culture. The history had been perfectly ruined, brought to a loud close with the introduction of machinery and slave work, whilst Albion continued to thrive off of the resources they received. Cherokee had not meant to exploit them so – who would have? – but he was loyal to his home world first, however much they seemed to disagree with his methods.

A drop of rain fell into the ex-King's eye and he wiped it away, not caring about the gravel that entered his eyelid. Familiar images of boyhood came to life, where he and Cherokee lay in the cool grass and chatted about the day's events, and the sky was alive with birdsong. The soft hand of his brother could be remembered upon his cheek; there was another memory locked within that, when his father died and the night their mother joined him.

"They're not gone forever…are they, Logan?" the fresh-faced young prince asked, his brown eyes wide with upset, sparkling with fresh tears as he gazed at his brother. Logan gave a half-hearted grin in return, a movement forward to allow a rushing maid passage.

"They won't be back here but we'll see them again, I promise." Another butler hurried past them, whispering to a soldier that they should not have been there.

"What do you mean?" Cherokee slumped over the bucket he had been given, although no one had made sure he was truly sick.

The bustle of death was considerably large, in terms of servants, "We all die someday. When we're older – much older – we'll see Mum and Dad again, and we'll be one big happy family."

"What if…what if I die first? I won't be able to find them!"

"Don't worry about that," a laugh escaped the boy's throat, "I'll die first, because I'm older. Anyway, if you did die before me, Mum and Dad would come get you. Just don't worry now, okay? I'm here." with a loud sigh, Logan enveloped the smaller man in his arms, nuzzling his head into the familiar brown locks as the maids moved past.

That was almost ten years ago, although the memory remained with no attempt to dissipate. Cherokee had since grown up and overthrown him, lost all sense of belonging to his brother, before fathering his own child with a common seamstress. It seemed the boy was no more connected than he was entitled!

Rain continued to fall over a sleeping world whilst the ex-monarch looked up, at the stars that twinkled and beckoned him to join. Each one whispered some sort of secret, some treasure that the universe had locked away, granted that Logan was not looking to find out their tales.

Because, deep in those stars, lay his father, with his mother beside him.


	23. Informing the Men

_My dearest brothers;_

_I apologise for the delay in my writing – there has been much commotion in recent days, and it took a great deal of time to discover Reaver's whereabouts. Had he not relocated himself, then my letter might have reached you at a faster rate._

_Albion has changed since our last encounter. Under King Sparrow's leadership, it seemed as though every corner festered with some undesirable, every inch of land plagued by the darkest social wounds, and yet now it stands firmly. Where the dead lie, roses grow. Where the heart suffers, trees bend to protect them._

_Reaver has not changed. I believed that his character may have reformed, feared that I might return to a different lover; these fears were for naught, as my dearest remains the picture of beauty and the beacon of indifference. Solace would appreciate his drainage of Bower Lake, considering that he hated such idle water. Perhaps…perhaps, if the Spire permits it, you might come and visit me?_

_The days grow tiresome without you. Each moment I suffer here, alone if not for my Reaver's hand, whilst the residents seem content to dedicate their lives to nothingness. The Balverines howl in the distance – from where I sit now, amongst the mountains of books and oceans of ink, they insist on their nightmarish cry, frightening all that dare sleep near them._

_I trust that the Spire duties are fulfilled? Should my letter reach you in comfortable strength, I would know that our brother Solace has done well. Naught would satisfy me more than to see your faces again; a day passes, and with it travels my sorrow, as I feel unconnected to all that surroundings me._

_Brothers, I have reached a problem in my residence. Desolation's daughter…our niece in every right, was happened upon by pure chance not several weeks ago. Reaver and I had entered a convenient cave during a tempest where, through no fault of our own, we became enticed by a child's voice. She found herself trapped by something – what it was, I do not know – and I freed her, although not without sacrifice._

_The beast showed me my father…my own father, before he became that twisted monstrosity. I wanted to scream and flee but, for all I am worth in the world, I could not force my legs to move, nor could I leave the darling to die. This thing would have killed us both had it the mind to. My bones remain chilled from its encounter; could it be that my mind has broken, such as my father's upon his corruption? Should I step down from my higher position and my Spire-Guard status? For the world crumbles before me, as if it were naught but soil between my fingers and, in my mind's eye, I cannot see a viable solution._

_Have I told Reaver? No, and I do not believe that worrying him should cause such alternatives. He cares for me in ways that I thought impossible. Once upon a time, brothers, when I lived eternally in the Spire and dedicated my life to it, there was no greater love than that of you. Now it exists outside of my birthplace, in the arms of a thief whom I was warned against._

_We sleep in separate accommodations, yet I wish for that to not be so. He speaks of preparation, as if there is need to prepare for our togetherness, albeit I do not argue such things. What reason would I have for bickering? There are times for us to speak about things of this nature – we have an eternity of youth to our lives, and I plan to spend each moment in love._

_Where was I? Ah, yes; upon our leaving of the cave, I found myself inflicted with dizziness. My life has never experienced it and I can tell you, it is not something that I wish to repeat. There seemed to be nothing that I could do for it so, in absence of a remedy, I allowed it to pass, although Reaver insists that I visit a doctor. Imagine, a mortal treating an immortal for ailment! I almost laughed._

_But I love him, so I shall do as I am asked. All that I write for now is peace of mind, that you are entirely safe in the arms of our Spire, and that you seek naught but its empowerment. Do I miss you? More than mere words could say. Do I wish for you to be by my side? Every moment, of which seems like an eternal agony. Do I embark upon my own journeys now, ones that are not for the heart of anything but myself?_

_Perhaps, in time I shall do so. You understand that I must battle through many years here as our contract remains, and I have not found the words to inform Reaver of our agreement. Boredom is an enemy best met on my terms! Had I not found a suitable hobby years ago, perhaps I would not even be able to write this letter. Such pathetic trinkets here can be deemed as 'hobbies,' should they be collected, or hoarded in a locked room amongst the clutter. Absolution, I must thank you for the coin collecting, as it has kept me from insanity since I returned here._

_Enclosed is a package – small, yes, but lined with something that I trust you need. Each piece of this necklace…it is sacred, so the Temple of Light Monks tell me, although I have yet to see any conclusive evidence. It may not be to our specific tastes but the jewels are precious, which means that it may be a suitable offering to our Spire. If not it has other uses, such as reflecting the light from the sky or attracting birds; just take it, for I am empty with its use._

_And brothers…pray for me. I fear that this creature has not yet left._

_Until we speak again, my brothers,_

_Deprivation (Wilbur Narcissus.)_


	24. On the Hunt

Reaver had noticed Deprivation's strange behaviour. They had been reunited for the better part of a month by then and, for a great deal of time, he had been acting as though he were still in the Spire. Early morning rises at five, taking part in the servant's duties by seven, before he left the mansion unaided to Silverpine forest, armed with not much more than a sword and a few measly snacks.

But still, the thief enjoyed his odd ways. The leader's eyes glimmered whenever he took up another duty, as if they made him feel connected to their world rather than something more. His tireless efforts did not go unnoticed by the maids nor the butlers since, for every applicable skill he showed, they seemed to have jobs that suited him. Reaver would just have to get used to his boyfriend's attitude.

On a chilly winter morn, Deprivation was gathering a few supplies for another hunting trip. He had found that Albion did not just possess a wealth of knowledge but also a wealth of animals, all of which could be caught and killed for the sake of sportsmanship. With a great sigh he equipped a special sword, one that had been perfectly shaped for such an occasion, before turning to admire the weak sunlight outside. It touched upon every corner of the world – the jagged stone walls that protected his home, the hideously gnarled steel which dug mercilessly into the earth, cold soil that had been upturned and rested upon raised hillsides. It all seemed so…surreal.

"Leaving without a goodbye, I see!" the soft voice of Reaver drifted from the staircase, "Are you trying to avoid me, love?"

Deprivation's face stretched into a smile when he looked upon Reaver, who had woken up not moments ago. An untamed tangle of hair sat atop his circular head whilst a hint of weariness descended on his pale features, the beautiful complexion that the leader had fallen in love with. Not a moment went by when he thought of avoiding his lover, although he knew he would die of boredom if he remained in the home.

"There are far stretches that I have yet to behold," he chuckled warmly in the foyer, which had been recently cleaned and polished, "Should I believe that you were interested in such things, we would be journeying with one another." A familiar flash of emerald mischievousness danced in his eyes, since he knew Reaver would take that as a challenge. Despite possessing a great deal of Albion's more successful businesses, the thief always found that there was not much fun in letting someone get away with such comments. After all, if he was not seen as a beacon of ruthlessness, how would he keep his employees in line?

Reaver took his handkerchief out of his dressing gown pocket, thoughtfully rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he spoke, "I know what you're doing, my dear Deprivation. You expect me to take up your little challenge, tell you that I'm not only capable of hunting but I'm a far more practiced shot than you, and accompany you to Silverpines!"

Another devil-like grin descended on the leader's lips, "Perhaps, although I am forced to believe that you know I am more skilled than you; is there a chance my love, that you are not such an expert shot? That your firearm has fallen-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Reaver had wandered down the stairs and to a large glass cabinet. The thief would never let anyone believe that he was not skilled, not even his lover – if Deprivation truly wanted to challenge his beloved, then Reaver would happily oblige.

"Very well, if we're going to have a gentleman's duel," he started speaking whilst pulling down the guns, which so proudly sat in each well-designed stand and glass case, "I say that we should do so in Silverpines, near the village. At least then I can get some proper labour!" he cast a meaningful glance over his shoulder just as a butler walked in, who was not his best employee after a recent string of harassment issues. Not that the thief cared for such complaints.

"Excellent, my love; ancestor's know that we must spend time with one another, should our relationship survive the first century," Deprivation's voice was soft as he spoke, although Reaver knew the feeling behind it. The leader's relationship with the thief – the seemingly mismatched, haphazard partnership that they possessed – was his one chance at love, and after that there would be no more. He wanted it to work beyond anything else.

After all, who would wish to spend eternity alone?

Reaver spent a good two hours getting prepared, and even then it took more time to get to Silverpines. They rumbled down narrow walkways in the 'royal' carriage, one that the thief insisted was more regal than his King's, whilst Deprivation spent the journey gazing out of the small curtained windows.

A forest was a strange name for this place; the paths they rumbled down were broken, decrepit, and the twisted ferns outside seemed little more than overgrown sunflowers. Trees were tiered with festering crawlers, small bugs that had otherwise no grand purpose whereas the ruined structures sat silently, awaiting the time when their glory days would rise and they would be of value again. He admired their white marble columns, the shattered edges that had once been the sight of some ritual, before he turned to admire the other side of the carriage. In that area it was darker, much darker, so he could only faintly make out the silhouettes of slashed branches and the slight engravings of nature.

Just when he made a movement to turn, he saw a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. The expertly trained pupils directed towards the trees outside which were suddenly stilled, waiting for another twitch of a limb or quiver of a pelt.

"Cat got your tongue, love?" Reaver chuckled from his velvet seat, specially designed for his wavering comfort, "It's not too late to admit defeat, Deprivation…"

A wicked twinkle danced in his eyes, "If that is your belief, I shall wait happily for your admittance."

Silence reigned again as the carriage continued its journey. Soon enough, the forest gave way to more manmade structures and, instead of simply growing over these atrocities, the residents had managed to quell nature's spirit so that they might make their lives there. Each wooden wall seemed to scream with some sort of nightmare.

They had seen the worst of humanity's trials.

"Reava!" a farmer-like cry from the largest house, a few hundred times smaller than Deprivation's new residence and made out of rotting wood, "Didn't expect you ta come back, sir!"

The leader jumped down from his seat, rushing to help his beloved descend the modern steps, "Hm, hello Derek – still using that voice, I see?"

"Me only voice, Reava."

"If you insist! I'm not here to collect that payment you owe me, so you can inform your men to lower their weapons," the thief chuckled as, from the corner of his eye, he had seen a few scrawny young lads raise their rifles to them, like they had a chance of a kill-shot against the expert felon.

"What you here for then?"

Deprivation watched the fat man closely, who had most likely been handsome in his youth. He wore peasant attire that was ragged and worn, patched together by a few stitches and held together in a precarious balance of will. The leader thought that it threatened to disintegrate with each small breathe of the wind; for the sake of his eyes, he did not want to be present when it all fell apart.

"Isn't it obvious?" the immortal cocked his gun towards one of the lit lanterns, which danced with a blue flame and flickered with every breeze, "For hunting, of course!"


	25. The Very Thought

The people froze around them. Deprivation noticed it – the change in expression, the glints of terror in their eyes – whilst Reaver seemed completely oblivious to their fear. With a click of his gun the thief closed one eye, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth for precision, a choked cry of anguish from the farmer's throat.

The leader did not understand their fear, or the reason why so many venomous stares were directed at him. Even the smaller children, the ones who had been playing with their twig-figures and raggedy dolls, glared at him through the midst of their cluster, those beady pupils filled with an animosity he could scarcely describe.

He did not have much time to observe it; almost as soon as his eyes had clapped on to a brave lass, her ginger hair like a comb's teeth atop her hair and her face touched by rage, a single gunshot rang through the clearing. Children shouted. Women screamed. The farmer cried once more.

All was silent.

Deprivation turned his head to see what had caused so much terror, although all he saw was a destroyed lantern. The blue flame that had once flickered there was gone, disappeared after Reaver's expert shot, and remained only in the eyes of this town's inhabitants. Their clashing irises were alight with the flames of their fury, their fear and their hatred, all of which were directed at the two men standing beside each other.

"For what reason do they stare at us so coldly?" the leader asked with a hushed tone, "I have not seen such glares since…since my own father did begin preaching his message, and my mother requested his silence."

Reaver's smile did not waver as he turned on his heels, completely ignoring his lover's question as he spied the second lantern. Without a second thought he shot at it and, with a sickening gurgle from a nearby mother, people fled the clearing to defend themselves. But from what? Deprivation's questions remained unanswered.

"Come come, love," the thief set up a pace in the middle of the clearing, where he could stand with no fear of ambush and see all that dared approach him. His lover had no choice but to follow.

Reaver smiled as the blue tunic man took up a place beside him, his hands trembling over the handle of his polished sword, "You have not answered me."

"There's no need for that tone, surely?" his voice was teasing, as if Deprivation's words were expected or cherished, "Give it a moment and I promise you, you'll see what's coming next."

A gentle peck on the forehead later, Reaver turned again to face the eerily still clearing. It seemed that even the wind had fallen asleep – the lanterns controlled the elements by what Deprivation saw, despite the growing anxiety that festered in his guts.

Then they heard it. Softly at first, as if it were a figment of their imagination rather than anything tangible, until the noise slowly grew into a menacing growl. Shadows in the weakening sunlight flickered on the ground whilst the trees whispered with fear, trembling to release their fearful leaves. Deprivation turned towards his lover with a glint of sportsmanship in his eyes; he suddenly understood the rules of their hunt.

"I have found contentment in the outskirts of this forest, where the Balverines fester in their small groups!"

"You've only been having half the fun!" the thief cocked his gun once more, and Deprivation noticed exactly which one it was. His lover had locked away the firearm he used when they first met, the one that had neither sentimental value nor worth beyond gold, and had instead opted to use the far more heartfelt one that came from the leader's own hand.

He was about to say something; it was the twinkle in Reaver's eyes that stopped him as, by just a sparkle of the faintest movement, he answered every question he could ever have. A smile fell upon the man's lips.

It took a moment for him to reply, "Let us begin, my love – I would be sorrowful if you lost our game!"

The clearing was plunged into abrupt chaos. Balverines jumped from what seemed like every tree, their sharpened teeth bared to find the fleshy throat of their next meal, black eyes directed on a challenge. Deprivation leapt forward with his brandished sword as a thrill jolted through his spine.

Finally! Some decent battle!

"Come on man! You can do better than that!" Reaver jeered whilst he shot away the surrounding creatures, mere moments before they could tear into his body. These were the ones he had not tried to tame; he had been warned against them, told that they were no more reasonable than they were sanitary, and so he had chosen to keep his distance until circumstance befell them.

Deprivation attacked another drooling adversary, "Your eyes must direct to your own foes, my love!" the creature fell to the steel bite of his sword and the leader, in all of his manly glory, became spurted by the blood of his enemy. His eyes began to transform.

"Where's the fun in that?!" laughed the thief, although by this time Deprivation was no longer listening. Glowing amber had overtaken his precious emeralds – once again, the leader was lost.

And with his sudden disappearance, the apparent succumbing to violence took his place. Viciousness laced each one of his attacks, so violently that even Reaver noticed a change and the Balverines turned to face him, as if they could not dare to attack the man without one another. Their hunched figures prowled cautiously through the undergrowth whilst Deprivation howled, his tanned features splattered by the blood that rained down on him.

The thief saw a new man. He did not lay eyes on his Deprivation, the Spire-Guard that he had fallen in love with and waited fifty one years to return; instead, Reaver clapped eyes upon someone he had never met before, and had no wish to know in the place of his lover.

In that weakened sunlight and underneath that red storm, this creature found the voice to speak, "Fight me beasts; by this hand, I shall spill the blood in your veins!"

Howls were met in opposition before the Balverines pounced. Each furry, mangy pelt collided into Deprivation and without thinking, Reaver cried out in terror, "Off him, you disgusting mongrels!" the thief could only watch in horror as the Spire-Guard – the man he loved and had recently returned – was attacked by animals that he had once dined with.

In a flurry of horned teeth, blackened eyes and razor-sharp claws, a sudden blade exploded from the depths of a Balverine's chest. The people watched from the square windows built in their huts and gazed as Deprivation was drenched by the madness; a fitting end some might have argued, especially if it saw that smug smile wiped off of Reaver's face. Who cared if it meant the death of an innocent man? They would do anything to see the immortal suffer…

"You have fought with the wrong body!" a scream from the ecstasy of claws, "On the heart of my master…my master…my…my S-Spire!" it was then that the emerald eyes returned to Deprivation, shining underneath the assaulting bodies atop him, lighting the way towards his miserable situation. Who had he just become? What had come over him that the usual mild temper had changed, transformed into the horror of rage?

Coupled with Reaver, the leader rapidly exploded from the throng and began to make short work of them. Heads rolled on the dusty clearing whilst they fought side by side, and quickly found themselves splattered by the blood of their hunt. Hardly a person had perished in the fight – in fact, by the damage Deprivation could see, the only person that had met their toothy end was the ginger-haired girl. Her pretty white face lay in tatters near the mine shaft, where she had most likely fled in an effort for safety...how the leader thought of these creatures…

"Well, I should say I'm pleased that's dealt with!" Reaver scolded his lover as he collected a few trophies, "You took most of the fight!"

Deprivation frowned at his lover, "I am sorry. I thought…I was not of my own skin, Reaver. It…It is…There are no words to describe what happens, my love, and none that could even do the very feeling justice."

He staggered, falling to the gnarled tree root that rose from the ground. With a sudden heaviness he sat on it, his breath ragged as he attempted to recollect the feeling and understand where he had just disappeared to, whilst Reaver quickly began to check his temperature. The thief had forgotten a key rule of the Spire-Guards – they did not suffer human ailments, much less the common cold or flu.

"Let's go home and mount these heads on the wall, shall we?" he said in an affectionate tone, strange to fall out of his thin lips, "You can tell me about it some other time."


	26. Sleepy Gazes

Ben Finn smashed valiantly against the molten hot iron, bending a sharp blade out of the liquefied slabs. A thickly bearded man sat on the other side as he struggled with the burden, two beady eyes directed on the simple diagrams in front of him and a chuckle upon his massive lips.

"Yer doing well, fer a young 'un," he mentioned after about fifteen minutes, "keep it up and I'm thinking about paying ya now." Throaty laughs rumbled from his barrel chest where, for the sake of reputation, he had donned a religious talisman that he did not believe in. The metal had been shaped to resemble a dog whilst the artist had bothered to paint it gold, and it glinted in the weakened sunlight.

"I'm not looking for a long-term contract," the soldier said curtly as he abandoned the tools. His face was streaked by the sweat of the day and his eyes – sparkling blue under the once-strong sun – were trained on the brand new rifle on the windowsill, its barrel polished to a near gleam. He would have liked to purchase that one after his labours.

In the town streets, the bustle of shoppers had finally died down. Ben had been subjected to watching them bicker and squabble, fighting over trinkets that did not matter or arguing about who had purchased the last cabbage head. It were as if they did not understand the famine out there in the world, the corners of lands that had been long ravaged by hunger and disease, otherwise they would have acted much more appreciatively to the shopkeeper's stock.

The blacksmith handed him a small sum of forty gold for his work, although he found no reason to complain. After all it was forty more than he had, which meant that he was forty gold closer to his dream weapon; if he were to give up then, there would be no chance that he would purchase the rifle.

"If yer about tomorra, then yer welcome to lend a hand again!" his temporary boss called after him, gruffly inspecting the extremely delicate sword blades and taking inventory in his wooden shop, "Better than sitting by me 'self all day."

As Ben awkwardly slipped out of the paint-splattered doorway, he called in reply, "That's alright, I'll…I'll be working at the produce stall tomorrow!" a blatant lie which did not go unnoticed, granted that the blacksmith cared little for it. He was delighted to have had one person sit in his shop, someone who was not browsing for weapons or some sort of armament.

In Millfields, Deprivation had just finished another round of 'medicine.' Reaver tended to him in his most loving fashion, armed with comb and wet flannel, trying his best to make his lover well again. It was a wonder that the leader had not asked him to leave him be, as he had so vainly attempted to explain why such acts were pointless.

"It's no bother Deprivation," the thief sang whilst he felt his lover's head again, like his cold pale hands could 'cure' his ailments, "There's no reason for you to be staggering about the place, is there?" with a gentle hand, he pressed the flannel against the leader's forehead and they exchanged a warm smile.

Many years had passed in which Reaver had thought about these acts, these little nuggets of kindness that he would never pass to anyone else, whilst Deprivation had only imagined the gentle embraces they would share. How could he have lived a life in the Spire, when a man like his Reaver had been born not centuries before? How could he have spent so many days believing he hated him?

The Spire worked in mysterious ways – it seemed that, whenever they had a peaceful moment together, he received a very strong sense of home with the thief. When Reaver's gentle lips fell upon his head, Deprivation suddenly felt as if he were wrapped up in the stone arms of his birthplace. When he kissed his immortal partner, nothing seemed to matter and the world faded around them, leaving the pair drifting aimlessly through time and space with one another, not caring whether they returned to Earth's cold surface or not.

If they were together, nothing mattered.

And in the castle, Logan and Cherokee were enjoying a rare meal together. Charlene had been permitted to leave the confines of her room for that encounter as, by the King's own words, 'Family sometimes needs togetherness, and tonight's the perfect example.'

"The wine's excellent, Daniel," his ex-monarch brother commented as the butler's milled about, their gloved hands unsteady with each expensive bottle, "Was it Father's?"

"Yes, I'm assuming he brought it in at some point," Cherokee replied although by that time he was distracted, absorbed in the quality of his daughter's clothing and how she presented compared to the staff. Her black and white dress hung loosely on her slim frame whilst she, being the pretty young princess she was, had chosen to eat the delicate cuisine with her fingers. Each bony appendage seemed to grate on her father's nerves as she nibbled on her dinner.

Logan was trying his best to draw attention away, "There's not much for young Charlene to do, should your exploring become common again. Shall I start making arrangements with tutors? How about Miss Appleseed? She had a lovely-"

"That won't be necessary, Logan; I'm already putting some things in motion for her. She'll be having etiquette classes by the end of this week…maybe tomorrow, if she doesn't stop doing that," the King's searing gaze caught Charlene off guard and she dropped her food, as if she had been presented with a horrifying creature rather than her own father.

She sighed – if only he would accept that she was not a toy, and that her interest lay within the activities of most girls her age. Perhaps Deprivation…perhaps he would be willing to fight her corner, should she see him again…

In the darkness of an unknown room, Chaos sat on his pedestal. He watched the scenes in front of him; the light embraces of his son, the condescending nature of the King and, though important, tedious process of Ben Finn at work. What did it all mean? Why did his master insist on such inspection?

Perhaps not all was well in Albion…


	27. Business

Reaver's employees had noticed the change in his mood. Recently he walked with a spring in his step, humming a merry tune as he passed the grinding machines and tireless workers, his whistles echoing down the smog-filled corridors that he called a factory. Their hopes were raised at the thought of promotions, perhaps even debt abolition – if they were unlucky enough for the thief to hear their rumours, then many of those men would find themselves dead.

On one morning, the immortal had decided it was the perfect day for work. Instead of his usual routine of wandering and shouting at the men, Reaver took up a small section of his desk in order to write bills; nothing that could be called important, mind, nothing that could change the face of his factory if they were enforced. It was simply because he had naught else to do. Should Deprivation had accompanied him that morning, his familiar tanned face present in that sun-filled office, the thief would not have bothered with such menial tasks.

"Hm," he muttered when his mind wandered upon his lover, who found that his time was better spent in the forest. The sunlight touched his youthful features as he thought about him, dancing across the face that he had protected and cherished above all else, whilst his steady hand reached instinctively for the half-filled glass of wine beside him.

Reaver enjoyed going home these days. It was not a wonder why with Deprivation at the door, although he had often busied himself in tasks that could carry on through the night. When would he finally settle for being a simple househusband? A Spire-Leader was his past life, surely – when he had vowed to return to the thief, he had never mentioned that he would bring his customs! Smiles stretched across his face as he remembered each little thing Deprivation brought home, often wrapped in a sheet as to not, 'upset the more ladylike of staff.'

The wine was slipping down his gullet when a soft voice entered the room, "Mister Reaver? There's a man here to see you."

It belonged to the soft faced beauty he called a receptionist, a local girl who had shown great aptitude for certain duties. Reaver had hired her in placement of his old secretary since, for lack of a better explanation, her face seemed to have started melting after the thirty years of service – the girl was a good enough spare in any case. And her lovely porcelain features were an added bonus.

What would Deprivation say if he knew that? The thief almost shuddered to think.

"The marauder or the landowner?"

"Looks to be both, sir," she replied whilst swaying by the door, her lovely white dress swaying in the breeze and biting her bottom lip, "He's got some guards with him."

Reaver sighed as he placed the drink down, annoyed at the early arrival, "The landowner, then. Let's hope he allows my takeover of his property; it would be such a shame to ruin my office." With a heavy hand he began clearing up space, due to his insistence that business associates were fierce on office presentation.

And so the man was swept in quickly, his guards in tow like some strange pack of dogs. The thief was hardly worried for their presence; if anything he welcomed it, perhaps even deemed it a challenge to his almighty authority. It was no wonder that the men quickly glanced at each other in surprise, as it seemed they had not been informed on whose acquaintance they would be making.

A shrewd businessman had entered Reaver's room that morning. Whereas the thief had been pondering on how to get his land, how much money would have to exchange before he would be sated, that man set his mind upon the future. He argued fiercely that the land deserved fair settlement – namely, the feather-hatted man wanted it to be equally divided between Reaver and the people, who would be able to settle until they built a huge farming empire.

What was that madman raving about?! Farmers, on Reaver's land?! Did he not see the potential?

Hours passed and the negotiations were getting nowhere. Guards shuffled in boredom in their spaces, feet aching from such a long time standing there, and the thief was rapidly becoming fed up with his associate's good-hearted suggestions.

A gunfight was bound to have happened; there was no question that, when the weapons had finally sprung on Reaver, he was relieved. The thief was all too prepared to draw his own Dragonstomper (the one that had been specially crafted by his lover, for good luck) and aimed it directly for the businessman's balding head. Shame – the office had looked so splendid.

"You're not really going to shoot me, Reaver," the cherry-faced bastard giggled, "I'm worth too much to you, what with my land and my connections. Besides, I've got all these guns on you! What makes you think that you're going to fire first?"

The immortal was about to reply when suddenly, another voice interrupted him, "I willed that my love would be in relative peace; do I miss the morns that you are not threatened?" the humour in it, coupled with the fact it was so elegantly spoken, caused a smile to descend upon Reaver's pale face.

How could Deprivation have bettered his timing? The Spire-Leader always seemed to turn up unannounced at the best of times, especially when Reaver found himself in quite a hard situation. Not that the thief could not handle himself, mind. It was simply much less complicated to have such a person beside him.

"Do you mind? We're speaking business," the balding man said, and the thief cocked his gun in reply. How dare he speak to Deprivation like that?!

But the leader was much calmer in his response, "If I were an uneducated man I would gladly leave – however, as the fates would have it, you are speaking ill to Reaver and therefore have invoked my participation. My love, may I?"

"Be my guest, Deprivation."


	28. Legislation

The office was a mess by the time Deprivation dropped his sword. Blood glinted on the silvery blade, its sharp edges caught momentarily by the sun as the leader turned, smiling at his lover in that old-fashioned way. Reaver managed a smile back even though he was disappointed, since it took so long to clean his private room and pay for his maid's silence.

"You're just in time to help me draw up these legislations," the thief muttered whilst Deprivation wiped his blade, the blood stains like blotches of paint on his discarded cloth, "Before those gentlemen came in, I was rather busy."

He smiled; hearing Reaver talk made him happy, as if he were floating on the lightest air and dancing on the very edge of euphoria. Many would have disagreed that the thief could be something more than a villain, a Devil, but Deprivation was determined to bring out his more affectionate side. Reaver loved him.

He would do anything to make the leader smile, surely?

"Legislations? To what aspect of the factory needs altering, my love?"

"Haven't you seen my employees? Slackers, the lot of them! I'm in desperation for a decent workforce – they just take all of my resources and insist on eight hour work days!" the thief sighed in exasperation, as no one knew the struggles of the common slave-master. Albionians were happy to call him disgusting, treacherous and a coward, although they only did so behind his back.

Deprivation took the seat in front of his desk, which had been splattered by blood and decorated with strips of soft fabric, "The employees? They have dissatisfied you? I do not understand how…"

"I wouldn't suspect so, love," Reaver took his quill from the inkwell, his eyes glinting in the streaming sunlight as he pressed it against the paper, "Do you have any thoughts as to how to whip them into shape? I'm not opposed to killing one of them."

Leaning back on the squeaky wooden chair, Deprivation pondered on the things he used to do. When his men were not acting in the typical Spire-Guard fashion – it did not happen often and, when it did, it was dealt with harshly – he would administer the swiftest punishment he could. They could withstand that amount of pain however, and these employees were as ordinary as driftwood in the ocean.

"Any ideas?" he was suddenly brought back from the world of memories, finding himself in that blood-stained office and facing the man he returned for, "I'm hard-pressed, Deprivation; I'd do nearly anything."

Again the leader pondered, his thoughts on what could possibly make Reaver happy. Those people would go through huge lengths to avoid work as far as Deprivation knew, since the thief had so often told him the horror stories of being an industrial giant. All the employees were lazy, he had insisted, and there was absolutely nothing that could be done to make them work more efficiently. That being said, the leader had his methods…

"Perhaps rewards would suffice?"

Reaver's interests perked up as he leaned forward, the quill poking through his paper, "Rewards?"

"If a man does not wake to the cry of duty, perhaps he would do so to the jingle of gold?" the leader stood up from his seat and paced around the room, like he searched for something in the midst of the blood, "Clanging pieces can be heard over the din of a battle-cry – man has proven such ideas for centuries, long before I came to this earth and millennia afore my grandfather."

"You're saying I should spend my hard-earned gold on some…some rewards system?!"

"You merely requested my opinion Reaver, and I have granted you the right to know my thoughts. Man demands for reward; my Spire-Guard brothers would never have craved such things but as you know, I am unused to the customs of this land."

The thief could hardly believe it. There he was, standing in the destruction of Deprivation's kill and listening to him speak, yet all he could come up with was to offer the employees more money? Some little incentive to come into work every morning? It would have been logical that he would threaten pay cuts, perhaps even life cuts, but the leader's idea was completely out of the question.

Yet, Reaver could find no words to tell him. It often came so naturally to the immortal – berate the perpetrator of his rage and immaculate them, before turning back to resume his usual day. So why could he not do that? Why could he not stare into the face of Deprivation, the Spire-Leader he had become so infatuated with, and tell him exactly what he thought of the idea?

_Come on Reaver; don't go weak, _he willed although it was useless. The leader's tanned features stretched as he smiled, patiently waiting for his lover's answer.

"I'm not certain it would work in application. I shan't deploy that idea until the beatings stop working," his reply was warmer than the words and Deprivation smiled again, despite the fact he knew the method would work. With one hand he stroked Reaver's soft cheek, the back of his glove brushing lightly against the pale complexion he loved.

And finally, he spoke in a hushed tone, "Very well, my love – I am truthful in my inexperience. This world is…different from my Spire, and in it I find new challenges upon each dawn."

He turned to leave the office, to scurry out into Bowerstone market and inspect the goods on display, whilst Reaver felt a sudden prick of curiousity. Had Deprivation arrived just to aid him? It took at least an hour from Millfields to Bowerstone; that journey in the carriage was pleasant, but not one that would be undertaken for no reason!

"Why did you come here?" the thief asked as he skulked out of the room, his master cutlass placed so elegantly in a holster and a smile on his face, "You're supposed to be on the outskirts of the forest!"

Deprivation paused. His eyes glowed that familiar amber colour, sparkling in the darkness as Reaver's receptionist began proper 'clean up' preparations. He smiled.

"I merely wished to see you," the voice was etched by a hiss, "That is all, my love."


	29. Shady

The busy Albion streets were a new experience. Deprivation dived between another gaggle of maidens who, through some force of their wills, were discussing another non-present member and her apparently loose ways; it was mesmerising how their loyalty was so temperamental, and how the leader longed to see his brothers again.

"Celery, milord?" called a short fat man from his stall, laden with the burden of a thousand carrots and sporting a crudely painted sign, "Freshest in all of Albion!"

Deprivation gazed into his moustache face in wonderment, pondering how he could live such a fulfilling life when all he possessed was that simple stall. As the bustle of the town-life moved between them and the leader was brushed aside by heaving bodies, his gaze seemed to stay rigidly still.

By a certain point, the 'shopkeeper' was starting to get uncomfortable, "From around here, milord? You're looking awful miffed!" a trembling hand set upon his shining apples, the ones that gleamed under the weak sunlight and seemed to hum with their own type of energy, "These here? They're apples – best in all of Albion, guaranteed! You're not likely to find better quality…less you want to go all the way to Fairfax, 'course!"

"Fairfax castle is but a short journey, I presume?" the leader said whilst he cautiously gazed at the fruit. He had not seen produce quite so fresh since all the food he received had been…liberated, from ships that had ventured too closely to the Spire.

The shopkeeper narrowed his dull blue eyes and ran a hand through his blonde locks, "It's a ways away; at least twenty, twenty-five minutes? Not a trip you'd want to take for some celery."

Deprivation was only mystified by one word – celery. He had no idea what celery was although he was certain he had tried it before, perhaps on an order from Solace on one of their more adventurous meals, yet he found himself curious to the taste. Those leafy limp sticks seemed…different.

"Are you certain of their value?" he inquired before picking one up, "My love, you see; he tells me of shifty traders, those who are dishonest to your cause and attempt to sell items of disinterest. Could you tell me that you are not of these men?" the leader's eyes narrowed slightly, staring straight into the soul of his trader, until finally something cracked.

It were as if he had hit a nerve within the blond-haired liar, who had not been challenged over his selection for many decades, "They're not quite as fresh as I've let on, I suppose. Got them about two weeks ago and they've been getting picked over for Fairfax produce, so I guess that there's room for negotiation on the price. Your 'love' sounds like one smart shopper. Who is it?"

The limp sticks seemed to mould over Deprivation's hand as he sampled each one, the bland leaves that sat like hair falling to the ground. He peered closely at each piece in turn and came to the conclusion that, if he were to buy something as grotesque as that, he would never live down the humiliation with his Reaver.

"My love?" the reply was absent-minded, "My love belongs to a man of many names here, and I presume not all of them are social accepted. Reaver."

The whole town seemed to freeze around them. He watched as each person dropped their equipment, their goods and trading items, before slowly turning to face the six foot high warrior. Women's faces had lost all colour – even the makeup they wore had paled – whilst men backed away from him, their own features tainted by a green hue. The trader took a gulp in preparation.

"Reaver, eh?" the stammer came out in a quick manner, like he was trying to comprehend such a thing; "He's got you under his thumb, has he? Didn't think he'd be the type to, you know…settle down?"

A flame started in Deprivation's emerald eyes, "The manner in which we 'settle down', as you so say, has not hinged upon his current attitude. He is still and forever shall be a formidable employer, businessman and lord; might I have never returned, he would stay as he was born."

Just as he said that, a sudden hand clasped over his shoulder and another voice entered the breeze. It was so certain of itself – for a moment Deprivation thought it may have been Reaver, come to save him once he sensed something was wrong, although when he turned his head he caught a flash of ginger. It was not Reaver.

It was simply Benjamin Finn.

"Having some trouble?" he asked whilst his blue eyes glimmered, causing Deprivation's own to narrow as he inspected him, "There's not much good for sale, but you can find a few things. It's like going into a treasure trove after dark; you're bound to find something, even if it ends up biting your behind on the way out."

The analogy was crude and the leader did not quite understand what he meant, although soon he realised that Ben was encouraging him to purchase the celery. After he did so and they began to walk away (followed by the stares of a few cowering citizens) they began to discuss the soldier's whereabouts, how Deprivation had not seen him in the port for some time.

"I've been working! Captain's said that I need to buy my own rifle this time so I'm, 'less inclined to damage it.' We're docked until I've bought the one I've got my eye on," he explained, taking the leader through a beautifully clipped garden with twittering birds in the trees. Each chirp sounded as though they were alerting each other to the two strangers, those men with the limp weapons of green, despite the fact Deprivation loved all types of feathered creature.

"Perhaps I could be of use? Reaver's manner is charming but I grow tiresome of the mansion – I wish to explore Albion and its customs!"

"That's alright; I want to earn it myself. Why don't you get a hobby like hunting or something like that?"

Deprivation smiled at him, the faint twittering growing more and more quiet as they ventured, "I have attempted to hunt with Reaver…it did not go as expected, though perhaps it was my fault that it did so. Forgive me…I suddenly feel…faint…" the man staggered over a clump of grass and collapsed to the ground, his hands taking the brunt of the impact as he attempted to regain his composure. Ben leaned forward to inspect him although he did not know what to do. How could he help someone when he was not a doctor? Soldiers and voyagers kept themselves out of medicine until the need called for it.

"Are you alright?"

"I am excellent…I just need some time…" the leader convulsed and choked on his own words, which caused Ben to spring forwards. He placed a hand on the back of Deprivation's head and screamed for a doctor, although this secluded part of the garden had seldom seen more than a passing trader. The freshly clipped grass had not been trodden by a skilled medical man for many centuries, the trees not embraced by the hand of a specialist other than explorers. It was not the best place to be at that moment.

"Can you stand?"

Deprivation's eyes sprung open as he bent his head down, as if he were staring at the grass underneath them. They glowed that terrifying amber before he hissed, "I am not a sapling! I can stand."

Ben was pushed back when he clambered to his feet; he immediately noticed the eyes glowing, and felt himself cautiously stretching towards his sword, "What's wrong with your eyes?"

The leader stepped forward, "I am not of this earth."

"What's wrong with your eyes, Deprivation?!"

"Do not call me by that name!" his hands leapt out and smacked the gleaming sword from Ben's grip, like they were sudden enemies in that shielded place. The grey walls around them were knotted with mildew and moss whilst Ben thought, through no fault of his own, that they would soon be covered by his blood.

"You're Deprivation! That's your name!"

"I am not Deprivation!" he hissed again, another step taken towards the soldier, "Of my blood, I am a Spire-Guard! I am the son of Chaos! I am the future of the Darkness, the eve of the Corruptor's takeover…I am a living God!"

It was then that Deprivation staggered a second time, his huge body landing in the cool grass beneath them. Convulsion after convulsion, scream after scream, he began to almost bend to something that Ben could neither see nor wanted to see, as if there were a mystical force that planned on destroying the leader from within. The soldier did not know what to do. He wanted to run. He wanted to flee the area and leave Deprivation there.

He could not bring himself to do it.

"_Save him…"_ there was a soft whisper in his ear, like the gentle hum of a mother to her baby, "_Save my son…I implore you, save him from the darkness…"_ there was no telling whether it belonged to a man or a woman; rather, it seemed like a mixture of both.

But what could Ben do? Could he really help Deprivation, when it seemed so clear that this force was not the usual ailment? What took over someone like the leader so easily? How could he help him?

"Reaver…" the answer came to him almost in a dream, "I've got to get Reaver…stay there! I'll be right back!"


	30. Call the Doctor

Reaver leaned over the unconscious Deprivation, his eyes peering at the cold tanned features. With one hand he traced the contours of his face, the very details he had fallen in love with over half a century before, whilst Ben was anxiously babbling what had happened to a doctor.

Dim candlelight flickered on the bedside table next to Reaver – after Deprivation's apparent collapse, the thief had been quick to take him away from the secluded garden spot and lay him on the cosiest bed available. He rested there in sweet oblivion to his lover's fear.

"You're going to wake up, you understand?" Reaver hissed into his still ear, shifting the crimson bed-sheets so that he seemed more comfortable, "I'm not wasting half a century just to have you die!" whatever threat he uttered fell upon deaf ears as Deprivation, through some manner of evil they could not fathom, had fallen into that dark abyss known as unresponsiveness. Many people had fallen into that condition over Reaver's lifetime.

Rarely did they wake from it.

"Will he be alright?" Ben asked the doctor as they entered the bedroom, his voice as shaky as a leaf clinging to its branch, "Deprivation, I mean. He's not going to…he's not going to be, y'know…asleep for…"

"Hard to say," the educated fellow was Reaver's favourite doctor, since his diagnoses were usually what the thief wanted to hear. Over the years he had proven his value; whilst the immortal could not fall victim to the ravages of disease and age, many of his most prized staff could. That doctor had managed to prolong their lifespans somewhat with his fantastic medical skills.

Deprivation twitched slightly in his sleep and moaned some inaudible noise, which caused Reaver to lean forward whilst pressing a wet cloth to his forehead, "He's not like everyone else, Barnaby. He's not the sort to get sick."

"Everyone gets sick at some point, Reaver."

"Not Deprivation," how dare he go against Reaver's idea?! How dare he say that the thief was wrong, no matter what his doctorates and certificates said about the matter? Centuries had been spent watching such medicine develop – if the thief had not picked up something on the subject of healthcare, he would have been an unobservant fellow indeed.

Shadows danced across the crimson wallpaper beside them, their twisted figures contorting more so when they came to the leader. It were as if he had suddenly become in tune with the darkness that sat around them. It were as if his recent mood had become all too clear.

The doctor ignored the dim lighting enough to peer at Deprivation's features, which had long since been creased in a frown, "There's no reason for him to have fallen unconscious. He seems healthy enough…yes, he seems to be one of the healthiest specimens I've ever lain eyes on. Did he consume some suspicious food lately?"

Reaver quickly shook his head; the answer was no, as all of the leader's food had been carefully prepared by gourmet chefs. The thief was determined to have his lover kept in the very lap of luxury, even if that meant the takeover of rights such as cooking and cleaning capability.

"Are you sure?"

"Didn't you see me shake my head? No, man! He's not had anything that I wouldn't eat myself," he looked as though he were caring for a sick infant rather than his boyfriend, yet the pure love on his face was a refreshing change. The maids had noticed the spring in his step since Deprivation's arrival – if the leader were to die after all of that, their boss would surely turn to cruelty out of grief.

"Fine, fine; he's going to be fine, then," the doctor began to collect up his things, placing them in a brown burlap bag that he had brought with him, "Don't know when he'll come out of the coma, but he should wake up. You're just going to have to be patient."

Patience was not a known trait of Reaver's. He had rarely been patient with anything, save the odd business transaction or the seizure of someone else's land, yet he could not imagine being patient when his Deprivation hung in the balance. Did the doctor not have some concoction to make him better? Was there no magical potion capable of awakening him, making him open his eyes and allowing the thief to gaze into them? There must have been something.

As he was leaving Ben turned to follow him, although he found himself quickly pulled back by Reaver. The familiar fire in his light-brown eyes told his soldier counterpart all he needed to know.

The thief would not rest until Deprivation was awake.

"You said that he'd started convulsing," the thief growled in a hushed tone whilst the light flickered on his face, highlighting those pale features that the soldier had told ghost stories about, "You mentioned that he attacked you. His eyes were different. What did you mean by that?"

What did Reaver want to hear? That the leader had told Ben his specific condition, that he had told him how to wake him up? He could not stand that furious look in the thief's eyes, the one that sparked with the energy of a thousand suns and glared into even the hardiest souls, "They were orange, sort of. I can't tell you much more than that though. We were talking – normally talking, as you would with a friend or something – and he turned around and attacked me! I didn't know what to do."

Reaver leaned forward to gently peck Deprivation's forehead. It was icy cold, the sort of chill that could be expected off a dead man rather than an unconscious one. That only served to worsen the thief's fears; what man turned so cold after only a few hours of sleep, unless he was on the path to demise?

But Deprivation could never die. His Spire-Guard blood forbade it! His brothers…his brothers were of an immortal world and as he was their leader…it only made sense…

"Get the King," the thief suddenly ordered his floppy-haired companion, "and his brother, if he's got the stomach for it. I need a boat…a fast one, too!"


	31. Stand By Me

Ben had to take the fastest horse in Reaver's arsenal for the journey, a fine steed that had been perfectly primped and polished for such an occasion. Its black mane was combed to a fine flow as he clambered atop it, flapping letters attached to its reigns so he encountered less resistance.

"You're to find the King and tell him that I need him, right away," Reaver was specific in his instructions, almost as if his whole life depended on Deprivation's swift recovery, "If you take longer than two days, I'll send men after you."

"That's okay – I'm going to be back," Ben was determined to help the leader, who had been perfectly healthy when they had first encountered one another, "He'll be okay." The soldier continued to prepare himself with what he had available, in addition to a few pieces that Reaver had equipped him with. That included a beautiful crimson coat and a large sack of money that hooked to the reigns, just in case he ran into some 'undue trouble.'

The thief needed everything to go smoothly. His lover depended on it.

A cold realisation passed over him by the time Ben left, thundering down destroyed pathways as his labourers continued their work. What if he could not reach them in time? What if Deprivation fell further into that dark abyss, one that Reaver could never follow him in?

"I'm sure he'll be fine, sir," a new maid was telling him as she folded his clothes, a smile on her porcelain-like face and a chirp in her voice, "Master Deprivation seems like the strong sort; type of man my ma wanted to marry once, when she was younger." Her lofty accent did not bother the thief on this occasion since, for all intents and purposes, he felt too depressed to imagine a suitable quip. He could not even begin to put her in her place when she dared pat him on the back, whistling some sort of tune that he heard a long time ago.

How could she be so sure about it? As Reaver sat on his comfortable chair thinking about their predicament, four legs on the floor and a mind away from home, he could not envision any scenario worse. He could not imagine a world where he did not have Deprivation – no, not even a world where Deprivation still sat in the Spire – and it showed as he aimlessly stared in his grand fireplace. The flames licked the marble mantle whilst he imagined thought upon thought, none of them leading to a comfortable conclusion.

The maid began to dust the white marble before she spoke again, "You're a good sort, master. People like to demonise what they don't understand, as my ma says, but you seem nice enough to me. The beatings aren't that harsh…not compared to what we'd get in the coal mines, that's for sure."

He barely registered when the cook placed a tea-tray beside him, loaded with all sorts of luscious treats and over-the-top decorations, "Deprivation's strong, but he's never done something even close to this. I'm not worried that he'll wake up – it's practically a fact that he'll do so." Even as he spoke the thief's eyes glistened, like he was about to pour a thousand tears right there and then.

The maid caught this. She saw those glistening tear drops form in the corners of his eyes, those tell-tale signs that it affected him a lot more than he let on, whilst the call of her duties caused her to continue with dusting. Her weapon's feathery touch destroyed the irritating colonies that formed; those cities annoyed Reaver so, with their dirty inhabitants and lung-aggravating attacks.

But not so much as that situation annoyed him. He would have a thousand of those dust-worlds in his home if it meant that Deprivation would wake, and help him rule over the hapless Albionians. It would destroy him if the leader would never awaken.

"He'll be fine, sir," she reassured him after her job was done and the city lay in tatters. With delicate footsteps she walked to the door, her fingers lightly brushing against its varnished wood as a smile stretched across her features.

"I've no doubt he will be."

She was gone when he said that. Whether it was due to impatience or some other duty, Reaver would never know – the maid had simply vanished from the room and taken her comfort with her, most likely to direct it on some other depressed servant in the mansion.

Dancing shadows flickered across his face as time droned on, its incessant wail silent to all but the thief. Each ticking moment brought a new fear to him, a new worry that his Deprivation may never have woken and his waiting would have been for naught, although they melted away into rationality quite quickly. His complexion became inflicted with the creases of distress whilst the night continued on, and he wondered whether 'love' was worth such a bout of worry.

Eventually he chose to abandon the chair, tea and fireplace in favour of Deprivation's bedside, his footsteps as quick as his rapid heartbeat when he walked. No servants were unfortunate enough to pass their master since, what with his foul mood, they would be sure to receive some form of beating.

"Deprivation?" the thief's voice whimpered when he strolled into the room, noticing how the window had been opened since he had last been there, "Are you awake?" the leader barely twitched as his beloved took the place beside him, his beautiful emerald gaze still closed whilst moonlight enveloped his features. Reaver could hardly stand to see him in such a way. He looked so helpless.

"You've got to wake up sometime, love," a rational thought to the unconscious, granted that Deprivation was no longer listening. It seemed as though he had been preserved in that state, as if some sick master had devised the collapse and used it to their own advantage. A logical thing to do if they did not know the leader, perhaps, yet one that caused Reaver great misery when he gazed.

For if Deprivation did not awaken, Reaver saw no point in doing so.


	32. Meeting

Deprivation could not tell where he was. There were flickering torches at the side of the room, so lightly dancing with flame that he thought they were peaceful, whilst every other inch seemed to be covered in mildew. The leader touched each damp, spongy moss he could see but he felt…he knew that he was being watched.

_Wilbur…_soft eyes glowed in the darkness, belonging to a man who had yearned for that very moment. He had waited for decades just to catch a glimpse of Deprivation's face, to see those features that he had known in a past life, although he could not tell if his son would ever want to be a part of him again. Chaos stood frozen for a moment more, his eyes directed at someone he had last seen as little more than a child.

"What is this place?" the leader cried out after a while. Confusing contours were scored down the wall where, unbeknownst to all present, many hapless souls had attempted to dig their ways out, the lesser men who were driven insane by that room's silence. It caused Deprivation much pain to see them, even though he did not know the people responsible.

"This place?" the shamed Spire-Guard could hardly speak for his dry throat, "Naught, dear Wilbur. If I am to speak of it, there would surely be all but happiness in your heart; I am inclined to hear the demon that rules it, yet this makes no difference to my hatred and sorrow at my damnation."

Piercing emerald eyes became trained on the darkness, where Deprivation could have sworn he heard the mournful words being birthed. For a moment he was contented to stare, to gaze at what confused him and caused such wonderment to dance in his heart, before he realised that he recognised that very voice. The dazzling gaze narrowed. Chaos's heart leapt.

It was Deprivation's voice that sliced through the silence, "You are no stranger to me! From what time did we meet, friend? Your voice – it reminds me of a world that I once inhabited, long ago in my boyhood. I am inclined to believe you are a close friend that has passed?"

Chaos urged himself to stay on his pedestal but, deep in his heart, he truly wanted to leap to Deprivation's side. The ex-leader wanted to envelope his son in a long overdue hug, encase them in his arms and never be forced to part with the man again, even though he knew that such an action would not be welcomed. Instead, he simply replied to the leader he had longed to see.

"I am…close, that is correct," his words were tactful, which Deprivation noticed quickly and made a mental note about, "We were the closest two people could be at one point, Wilbur. Should things have turned out differently for our time together, I daresay that we may have had an ever-lasting friendship." With a great leap Chaos jumped to the floor, his feet landing expertly on the only unbroken slab that still lay there. He feared that his son – his Wilbur, his little boy – would immediately attack him when he caught sight of his face, since those features must have long ago become a source of great hatred in his heart.

But fear was for the weaker man. He had time to ponder on his choices and, despite everything that he had thought in those silent, shadow-inflicted walls, he knew that he had to warn his child. It was the least he could do.

Deprivation was rightly confused but nonetheless, he stepped forward to peer at the man. His details were hidden by darkness and yet the leader could see him, ever so faintly in the flickering candlelight around them.

"And what of your name?" he asked, stepping ever closer so that his image became clear. Chaos's heart leapt again when he gazed into those piercing emerald eyes which, many years ago, had captivated him on the day of his son's birth.

His throat attempted to close itself when he replied, "Chaos, my son. Horatio by birth and Chaos by nature; you are of my flesh, dear Wilbur, and I fear that you regret every strand that stays within you."

Deprivation heard the words, but he could not register them at first. The thought that that man – that person who hid his face – was his father…it was preposterous, especially as the Crawler had passed. Without a second thought, the leader began to laugh.

Chaos was confused until the man spoke, "Which of my brothers are you? I am inclined to believe it is Solace, playing a joke on me as you usually do! Come out, brother, let me see you; it has been far too long!" the leader did not know how his brother would have come to that place, much less how he had ended up there when he had been speaking to Ben Finn. He remembered the soldier's voice floating in that secluded garden area, the way they had laughed with each other whilst wandering amongst the unkempt grass, yet what happened afterwards was a complete mystery to him.

It hurt the captive a little bit, that his son did not believe his words held truth. Perhaps it was better that way? Perhaps if he thought they were little more than brothers, Deprivation would be more willing to open his heart? It would certainly make the next few decades more comfortable, since Chaos had no doubt his master was repeating his old ways with the young man.

"Come, put your hands on this," he directed them both to a stone column in the middle of the hall, which Chaos had made the mistake of touching many years ago. If he could convince his own flesh and blood to do the same right then, all would be lost for the fantastic Spire-Guards.

But Deprivation was wary. He had learnt that many people would attempt to take his power, through lessons and storybooks alike. With a great reluctance, he stepped back and glared into the silhouette of the man beside him, as if challenging him to a battle of wits.

"For what reason?"

"Trust me, little Wilbur."

"For what reason?"

"For the good of all that is kind!" he sighed and reached forward, his own hand activating the column as sparks began to fly out of it. Deprivation jumped backwards, his sword equipped in less than a second whilst his eyes stayed on the column, like it would rise and attack him if he dared move.

"Where is my Reaver? Why do you not let me go?" his question was laced by a deep anger; it were as if he had just realised that his beloved was not near him, and that he was truly alone in those mildew covered walls. Chaos could only choke a reply to him after the burning pain in his fingertips passed.

"Your Reaver?" he muttered, "He sleeps in sweet oblivion."


	33. Blind in the Dark

Ben had thundered down those crumbled paths for hours, his steed never stopping for longer than a moment. The letter flailed helplessly on its chains as he attempted to cross another rickety bridge, with squeaks escaping from his throat every time the boards shuddered. Rushing water gushed underneath him but he hardly cared, hardly paid attention whilst the black stallion whinnied on its way, like they were venturing into the unknown depths of Albion rather than delivering word to the King.

"Let's get your hooves up, then!" the soldier shouted although it did very little – that horse would do no more for him than it would have done for an amateur rider, perhaps even less whenever he raised his voice. It were as if it had an innate sense of manners and, for whatever reason it possessed, the horse would not allow Ben's to slip on their journey.

Darkness crowded around him by the time they got to the waterfall. It seemed to almost creep over the flowers as he clambered down from the steed, so it could drink tidily from a small plunge pool whilst the soldier tried to suss out the quickest route. Each lucrative movement it made enveloped the world surrounding them, swallowing both bushes and trees alike, yet it did not seem to be satisfied with simple vegetation. It wanted more.

It wanted Ben Finn.

"We're in a bit of a pickle now, aren't we?" the ginger patted his horse's perfect side, which had been specially groomed not many days before; "I don't think we'll get to Bowerstone until morning. Reaver's going to be really unhappy."

There was a truth in his words as, at that exact moment, the thief was still 'tending' to his unconscious lover. It had been hours since he had last ventured away from Deprivation, ages since they had been parted for more than a second, granted that the warrior could hardly appreciate such things in his state. As Reaver pressed another wetted flannel against his lover's tanned forehead, the ex-Pirate King could remember every little detail that made him smile, the charms that had caused him to first fall in love with Deprivation.

Ben's horse whinnied suddenly, causing him to turn sharply and inspect what was happening. A hand instantly leapt out to clutch Reaver's old Dragonstomper, one that he had blessed the soldier with to ensure his safe arrival – it was Ben's hand that clutched it then, yet it was not his voice that spoke.

"That's him, Corby," the speech was tinged by a thick accent, one that could have been mistaken for a farmer's if it were not so clearly thuggish, "That's the guy Tim said about, the guy with Reaver. The pigeon said 'bout him having some letter, attached ta the reigns!" the soldier could see no more than faint silhouettes, lumbering towards him at a speed that could be considered unnatural.

"Tim's had his fill with Reaver, boy! Give us that letter; Deprivation ain't surviving the night!" a calloused hand gripped Ben's wrist and squeezed it, which almost made him drop the very rare gun that sat so happily in his grip.

"Let me go!" he shouted, despite the fact he knew it would not help him, "Let me go, or I'll shoot you down to your knees! Help me! Help!" his cries echoed through the open clearing, the one that had been ravaged by logging and shaped to include Reaver's 'handy monorail.'

Laughs followed it as the men began to fight the horse, whose hooves were starting to beat them off at every turn. The large, thunderous feet were hitting out with every ounce of strength they had, every little hint of youth that still sat within that steed, whilst Ben tried his best to free himself of their monstrous grip. He called for help for a good few minutes until he realised no one was coming, much less someone who was capable of actually helping him.

"I don't want to shoot you! I'm a great shot!" he lied through his teeth since, on many occasions, he had been told that his pistol work needed a bit of polishing, "You'll regret the day you tangled with Benjamin Finn, that's for sure!"

Why had he just released his name? Why in the world had he given those thugs a name to go by, something that they could use later on? The soldier almost slapped himself when they let him go, a smile on each of their slightly blurred faces as they backed away and turned towards the horse.

"Ben Finn, eh? Heard about you, boy," the largest one muttered under his breath, "Yer not much of a good shot, from what I hear. More o' a girl with the gun." A chuckle festered from deep within the thug's chest whilst he turned to his friend.

"What you think, Marty? Should we let Deprivation die and get Reaver when he's down?"

"Be too easy Corby. No…no, we've got to let him have a chance, very least," the giggle from his throat was almost enough to make Ben sick, although he kept his lunch down as the men began to walk towards the horse. It whinnied once at them before lashing out, as if it were showing its might against the two dimwits before it, yet also showing Ben that it needed some help with them.

They scattered, the larger one speaking only after they had regained their surprised breath, "Fine, fine, we'll let him go and give that letter away. Would be a shame if poor Dep had to die, wouldn't it?"

With a snigger they began to walk away, their presence a faint memory by the time they had rounded the corner and vanished. Even their lofty accents were gone when they did that, although the effect of their presence was felt as Ben clambered back on his steed.

"We've got to get to the castle," he whispered into its twitching ear, "Who knows what enemies Reaver's got?"


	34. Touching the Past

Deprivation leaned towards the column, his eyes peering at it as though it might jump out at him. He wanted to believe that man who stood next to him – the man who, despite the rather solitary life he had led before, sounded as familiar as his own heartbeat.

"You are certain that I should see Reaver after this?" he inquired, "Only, it seems magical that I should touch this and he should appear!"

The shadowed Chaos nodded to himself, even though his precious son could not see the gesture, "Yes, I am certain that it should work. It has done similar magic before you found yourself locked in this chamber with me."

Another flicker of disbelief fell upon Deprivation's face, one that almost made his father weep for his situation. How long ago had they lived in harmony? Had there been that mistrust in his eyes before, when Chaos sat at the helm of the Spire-Guard rather than at the right-hand side of the Corruptor.

Finally, the leader spoke, "Perhaps I should not trust you; my love has told me often of men with dishonest hearts. 'They shall take your sword before they took your hand, Deprivation.' We have spoken of my mistrust for strangers, and he claims that it is a mistrust that should certainly see my safety through. Tell me, why should I go against my Reaver's claims?"

"You have no other choice."

True enough words – Deprivation did not have any choice, especially if he wanted to catch a glimpse of the pale man he loved. If there were any chance that he could lay his eyes upon Reaver again, it was known that the leader would take it in a heartbeat.

So with a great weight in his stomach, the immortal warrior stretched out towards the column. Dancing flames seemed to lick at the walls whilst he leaned towards it, their fiery tongues touching all the growing moss they could and sucking the moisture from the air, although Deprivation hardly noticed as the shadows danced across his well-formed features. It was a matter of moments before he stroked the surface with his fingertips.

"What…" the fires dissipated. The moss seemed to melt into the wall. All around him, Deprivation watched whilst the setting vanished and became something he wanted no part of, the once-peaceful chamber becoming inflicted by a disease he knew well.

Darkness.

"What is going on?!" his piercing emerald irises glinted through the black, staring at the man he thought he had not met before, "What have you made me do? Have you caused the darkness to grow around us or is it…is it here for some other reason? Answer me, stranger!" he gripped for his sword on the off chance that it might have been there, although he was hardly surprised to find differently. Why would the sword have followed him to a place they did not know? That man wanted him defenceless.

Chaos sighed as he wandered in the darkness, his hands out to touch the sides he was so familiar with, "There has been a deal made, Deprivation. You are not aware of it and, if you were, you should surely have my head as quickly as you would hear my words." A murky black movement was made at the far right wall, where suddenly the room sprang into a low visibility and allowed the leader to see who was speaking. "It has been a while, son."

The look of pure fury in his eyes was enough to kill a man. Indeed if it were not Chaos standing there, the person would have dropped to the floor from either a heart attack or the agony that came with being stared at in that way.

"You…" the leader took a step forward, his hands clenched in two fists like he was about to attack his father, "You are dead! Why do you play tricks with my mind, demon? Have I offended you on my leaving of the Spire? Do you want my Reaver for yourself? I am stronger than you apparition; if you dare keep me here any longer, then by this hand I should find your blood!"

Before he could react, the ex-leader found his own son's hand around his throat, the eyes that he had seen on his birth burning into his like a madman. He knew that the anger was justified – Deprivation also knew that his father would never allow for such an attack, since his mastery of their techniques called for quick reactions.

He smashed his palm into the man's nose, twisting underneath him when he was disorientated and disappearing from sight. Deprivation span around and jeered, which was met by a swift kick to the stomach in addition to a hand on his own, as if to twist him in such a way that he could not hope to fight back.

But then the immortal had the upper hand; he reached forward with his free hand and punched Chaos straight in the eye. It allowed him a few moments to manoeuvre his way around the man, so that he could snatch up his hand and twist it underneath itself, rewarding a cry from his father that was similar to a cat being hit by a shovel.

"My son, please!" he fell to begging as he collapsed to his knees, "You are not of a vengeful nature! You are my boy! Make your mother proud…ah…release me!"

Deprivation stopped pushing the hand down. He looked down at the man underneath him – the man who, by every sense of the word, had destroyed his life in favour for his own gain. He should have killed him. He should have satisfied his growing hunger for revenge.

But Chaos was right.

"My mother would have hated everything you are," he huffed as he let him go, with a heart heavy in regret.

"I know, Deprivation."

"You shall tell me everything that is going on – for your sake Chaos, I hope that it does not displease me."


	35. Back to the Castle

By the time Ben had galloped into the Castle's Courtyard, the King was more or less expecting his arrival. The news had travelled much more quickly than his horse ever could – locals passed it through word of mouth, smoke signals and the more creative carrier pigeons, all of which seemed to go through the castle before they could go anywhere else.

Yet the soldier was surprised when he was greeted with friendly smiles. It was not like the King to keep his guards on the lookout for visitors; much less visitors who had helped him kill Crawler all those years ago. Cherokee preferred to keep that part of the past hidden. So why did he welcome Ben so happily, despite the fact he had played an integral role in the battle?

"You're late," he mused as the soldier waltzed into his throne room, the letter clutched in his shaking blue hands, "I was expecting you to turn up much sooner, Ben." Without a second glance at the little Charlene, who sat so perfectly still beside her father and gazed at him with more affectionate eyes, Finn dropped the letter on his lap before turning on his heels.

The streaming sunlight from the arch-windows caressed his back lightly, causing the familiar red suit to look as though it were on fire. His heels clicked against the ground as he paced, circled and wrung his hands together in the increasing tension, with one hope in his mind that Deprivation was recovering and yet, somehow, knowing that nothing could have got better in the brief time he was away. With agonising slowness, the King scanned through his old friend's letter and allowed an eyebrow to rise.

Charlene could not contain her curiousity, however, "Why're you here? Has something happened in the town? Oh, is there another boring celebration on?" her pout told Ben all he needed to know, that the princess did not like those so-called 'celebrations' for one reason; they were treated as an etiquette lesson.

"I wish it was something that dull," Ben explained through the glaring eyes of his King, "There's been an accident…Deprivation's hurt, badly. We're not sure what's happened exactly…Reaver made me send for you right away."

"The letter says that I'm to go to his manor with a prepared ship on offer!" Cherokee had enough of those demands from the thief, who had not once tried to make his beloved Albion a better place, "How do you expect me to do that in two days, as this letter tells me to? He has to be realistic!"

Charlene flinched at her father's words, even though they were not specifically directed at her. Deprivation had come and protected her when Cherokee chose to leave – for the princess that made him a friend, albeit a slightly unorthodox one to make in her circumstance. Yet she could not voice her opinions when the King was in that mood.

'Daniel' scratched underneath his crown as he racked his brain for thoughts, something wise that he could tell Ben to send him on his way, though he found that he had not come up with something in weeks. All of those deals that he had to make because he could not satisfy them with words…it was frightening to think how much the landscape had changed, especially after they had suffered at the hands of Crawler.

"Maybe you should go back and tell him it was a waste of time."

"Go back? Are you not hearing me? Reaver's not going to let me just go back! Might as well stick a target on my head!" Ben theatrically threw his arms in the air, as if the very thought had drained his body of all that vital riding strength. The purple banners that decorated the walls seemed to shudder at his voice, although the ancient tapestries stayed deadly still as he stalked around the room.

"I can't get a boat to you in that time. What do you two need it for, anyway?"

"How am I supposed to know? It's not like Reaver actually told me what the letter said – he just wanted me to come back with good news." It was true; the soldier had no idea what the letter held within it, much less what the thief would demand for in his panicked state.

Grief did horrifying things to a man…

But Charlene did understand the scale of the situation. As a future queen, the child had quickly adapted to class after class of geography, most of which was centred on the survival of mankind and how she would later affect those chances. Reaver was a huge part of their local economy. If he was discontent with the way he had been treated, the thief could easily pack up all his business techniques and find employment elsewhere, most likely on the sunny shores of someplace far away. They could not let that happen.

And Deprivation had shown her such kindness before.

"Perhaps you should go, father," her suggestion was laced by the soft touch of manner, the subtle changes that separated a princess from a peasant, "There's plenty of opportunity to adventure along the way, and you could meet some of our dangerous people – for neutralisation purposes, obviously. It'll be a good deviation from routine!"

She hated the way her voice changed around her father. It was not that of a child and much less of her own; it was what he expected her to be, a perfect, flawless example of his viciously neglectful parenting.

Cherokee glanced at his daughter before turning to Ben, a familiar spark of thoughtfulness in his brown eyes. She was right about the dangerous citizens and it being a perfect opportunity, especially when he considered that he had not been able to venture out in quite some time. Perhaps it was a Godsend in disguise? Perhaps he could have some fun along the way? Perhaps Ben would become an unlikely sparring partner, one that the King would later reminisce about?

"Fine, I'll go down to the docks tomorrow and get them to prepare a boat. But don't leave too quickly!" the soldier halted in his tracks, which would have taken him out the door and to his awaiting stallion, "I'm coming with you to see Reaver. I want to know exactly what we're dealing with first."


	36. I Love Him

Reaver had taken up an almost permanent residence beside his lover. As the days droned by he did not move, dare not breathe too loudly for fear it would send Deprivation further into the coma, yet he knew that the Spire-Leader had very little chance of coming out at all. The thief shaved, washed, ate and drank within those monotonous crimson walls of his lover's room and, on the odd occasion he did venture out in search for something, he would be back in his seat by the time that the sun dragged down to the horizon.

"You've certainly been asleep a long while," it was normal for him to keep a conversation going within that time, with a sort of hope that Deprivation would hear his voice and venture closer to it, "If you keep resting like this, I might not allow you to go to sleep again!" even though he chuckled warmly to himself at the idea, it was true that Reaver did not want to ever let the Spire-Guard sleep again. He wanted for him to wake up and never need to rest once more, so that they would never be parted in such a manner again.

Deprivation could hear his lover speak. In that chamber where he was being held, the Spire-Leader was forced to listen to the subtle changes in his beloved's voice, how he longed to see his eyes again and caress his cheek to make it twitch.

"He does not understand," Chaos said softly as he stroked Deprivation's hair, "I know that you wish to be with him my son, but there is much you could do here that would satisfy you more than he. Could you…could you take my word for it?"

"Your word? The word of a villain?!" the piercing emerald gaze fell upon Chaos whilst he son moved forward, just so that the creeping hand would stop touching him, "You are nothing to me, Chaos. You will not influence my decisions and you shall not keep me contained – I wish to go back to my Reaver. You shall allow for my choice."

The ex-leader sighed again, running a hand through his hair as he thought of ways to convince the man. He knew that Deprivation would crave the touch of his thief; it was a given that he would fight against the forces of evil in favour of his love, yet it did not mean that Chaos could simply sit back and allow it to happen. His master would kill them both before he did that.

What man would let his flesh and blood die?

So he was softer in his approach, "Reaver would be far happier seeing you dead than living as a shell, surely? He would never want to lose the man he loves twice – you would never put him through that agony, would you? I lost my Enlightenment…you must not lose your Reaver in the same manner, my son."

Reaver pressed another cold flannel against Deprivation's forehead as he quietly spoke, telling him of the day as he had done so often before. He mentioned the shooting of a few pirates in Bowerstone and how it collided with his plans of illegal smuggling, yet he could not feel the smile on his face when he told him that he had found another way to do it. He did not care for the cargo that would be sent to his office the next morning. He did not care for the new pirates that would give him his payments. He did not even care that it would make him a richer man.

All he cared about was his precious Deprivation, whose eyes had been closed to him for a long while.

"There's been another shooting in the Industrial district; one of my workers, I believe. Why does it always happen to me?" he whined whilst pressing another flannel to Deprivation's neck, "I've never been inherently evil, have I? Surely it's not my fault that I'm so famous people demonise me?"

Deprivation's eyes did not even twitch in reply. Reaver sighed again – it was another indication that his lover was far away for him or incapable of responding, since he always attempted to give at least a spasm.

"I suppose it doesn't necessarily matter too much…just another gap to fill after all," the thief muttered almost to himself that time, although the maid thought that he was certainly speaking to his lover. Even she feared for Deprivation's wellbeing at that point, rather than joining in with the discussions of the kitchen about when he would finally perish.

"Milord, the cook's got a load of new brownies for you to try?" she said in her normal lofty accent, since she knew that the thief would rarely pass up the prospect of tasty treats such as brownies. She was shocked when his pale complexion shook in denial. The candlelight flickered past his features as he continued to stare down at his beloved and think of the good times they could have shared, had he not fallen into that coma where he could not follow.

"Not tonight."

"Are you sure, milord? He's perfected the recipe you gave him – over eight hundred grams of cane sugar, just like you said."

"No, not tonight!" his shout was hardly a shout; more a whimper, an admittance of defeat. He could not think about sampling the tasty snack without his Deprivation present, even though he had done similar things in the fifty years of his absence. He had delved into the unknown worlds of pleasure without his beloved being present, yet he calmed himself by remembering that he would stop the instant that the Spire-Guard returned to him. Reaver refused to be unfaithful to him.

If that was not true love, the thief had never come across something true in all of his years.

"If you wish, milord," she quickly gathered the washing she had not collected and made her way to the door, but for all she was worth she found herself turning back to him, "Deprivation's going to be alright, sir. He's a tough one. We all know that he'll be fine."

The thief managed a small, sincere smile and replied, "I know, Elizabeth. I love him."


	37. Storms

Thundering hooves clattered over the cobbled roads of Millfields, bringing the riders ever closer to their looming destination. Against the stormy skies they could see it – Reaver's infamous manor painted creepily on the clouds, which themselves were painted in the blackest insanity that Ben had ever seen.

Rain like bullets splattered against their faces as they rode. The stallions bucked under them whenever they found a cobblestone out of place, although they kept their heads down and the whinnying was limited to when they felt that their riders were paying too little attention. It was not terrifying for them to match the storm's cries. They were exhilarated to ride with the horses of old; the very steeds that had ridden to battle in even worse tempests and, with their legendary warriors, had defended Albion with hooves made of lightning.

"How's Reaver coping with this kind of storm?!" the soldier asked whilst he struggled to grip the sodden reigns, "His stables aren't built to stand this kind of attack!"

"The man's insane! He's got enough horses to last him seven lifetimes – it doesn't matter if there's a few storms along the way! He'll just buy more," the King's screams could only just be heard over the thunder, yet Ben found himself nodding as if he had just shouted it over a coffee shop counter.

Inside the manor, Reaver was busy locking the windows within his beloved Deprivation's room. With each snap of every mechanism he smiled, as if he had just extended the immortal's life with his extra care and precision, whilst the maids were busy outside shifting trays and over-used bed-sheets.

He put the rusted key on the wardrobe after he had finished, speaking with a soft voice when he addressed the unconscious leader, "There's no way it will get cold in here now, love. I'm certain that it will be over soon enough. What do you think?" it was rare that the thief would ask for a second opinion, especially because he wanted to hear someone else's voice. It had been too long since Deprivation had spoken to him in that voice, the voice that Reaver had fallen in love with and wanted to grace the halls of his manor again.

But the leader stayed silent. His dazzling emerald eyes did not flicker. His face stayed in that stony frown as it had been for months, with no sign of life other than the occasional rise and fall of his blue-tunic chest. The candlelight danced over those expressionless features that Reaver loved so much, causing his heart to almost snap in two as he envisioned a life without Deprivation.

"When you wake up, I'm planning a trip to the theatre as a type of celebration," he admitted quietly whilst caressing the leader's face, "It's a tragedy, but one of romance – one might think that I'm interested in the prospect of sorrow. But…but I am partial to romance on the odd occasion…especially with you…"

A frozen gasp fell from Ben's lips as he threw himself off of the horse. It whinnied pathetically, stamping its hooves on the ground when the soldier quickly rushed up to the grand manor's entrance, like it did not want to see him vanish into the abyss of night. At least, it did not want him to go into that dungeon Reaver called a home.

"Reaver, open up!" he hammered on the fine wooden entrance in front of him whilst the King descended from his steed, wishing that the weather were more favourable to their situation. Rarely did a royal find themselves in the midst of a storm, one that barked with the blackened bared teeth of hostility and rumbled with the bitterness of a sea-widow, yet did not threaten to break until they were safely inside.

Not every storm was intent on the kill. Some were far more interested in the build-up, with those wind-reigns cracking overhead as the men struggled to have their knocks heard. Reaver was far too preoccupied to listen.

"There's a new festival going on in Bowerstone soon. From what I gather, it's supposed to be a do to celebrate Charlene's birthday – you remember Charlene, don't you? Plain little thing that lives in the castle, wears all those lovely frocks?" the thief had locked every window by then but, as he gazed down on the stony face of his love and thought about all they could be doing, he felt a nagging that he had not done something. The battering against each glass pane only made him feel worse; if he could not even protect Deprivation from noise, how on earth would he make him happy throughout their Albion-bound lives? Would they find peace together?

"He can't hear us," Ben deduced over the growing wind, "We're going to have to go round the back! Here…wrap this over your head!" like children, the men clumsily tugged at their hardly appropriate shawls and attempted to fashion makeshift rain coats, just enough so that they would protect their ever-important heads of hair. The wind threatened to rip them off with every fierce howl but they remained firm against it, pulling the whinnying stallions that had bothered to make the journey with them.

"It's going to be another cold winter in the farmlands," Reaver pressed a hot bottle to the leader's stomach as the fireplace softly crackled, "I'm thinking about letting some of my workers go until these cold snaps wear off. There shan't be any need for extra help if we can't even plough the fields. I'm sure you'd try your hand at some of the manual work if you could, wouldn't you?" there was another gentle hiss from the fire as a log slowly disintegrated into nothingness, the only remnants ash whilst the thief prodded it with a red-hot poker, "There aren't enough workers like you. I must admit, they aren't too pleased with the way I organise things. Imagine; I have the audacity to make my workers earn their payment?! It's scandalous!"

Ben was angrily battling with his horse when Cherokee had finally found their entrance inside, pulling fiercely at the reigns whilst it kicked and roared for freedom. It was a terrifying spectacle to see the beast cry like that, especially when he had just galloped over what seemed like endless field and had trampled any obstacles that dared challenge them.

"We've got to get to Reaver!"

"Then help me with this horse!"

"No time! They're trained well enough!" the King pulled at his friends shoulder and quickly made him release the reigns, which only allowed for the stallion to buck once before it charged off into the darkness. Ben's eyes were alight with fury as he turned.

"What did you do that for?!"

"It will find its own way back to the castle if we let it – right now, we've got to find Reaver and tell him about the arrangements," again he pulled at the soldier, but that time with an urgency that seemed almost uncouth, "I'm sure he'll be happy to know that we've got a boat for him!"

Ben could only stare into Cherokee's eyes; the eyes of a man he had sworn to protect yet, with every passing moment, felt as though he could stand to be without. If only he had not found loyalty rife within his heart.

Charlene would have made a far better Queen.


	38. Plan Revealed

"Do I really have to be so far from Deprivation?" Reaver asked as the chef put three cups of piping hot coffee on the table, "He may wake up while I'm gone."

Ben and Cherokee had been let in by the maid sometime after they had started knocking, although she had only just heard them over the blowing wind outside. Both men looked like they were about to fall dead on their feet, completely drenched by the rain that had started firing from the sky and saturating the very ground they had walked on. Reaver could only snort in disgust as they trekked mud on his crimson carpet.

_That was imported you know, _he thought grimly whilst they took seats in front of him, the warmth of the fireplace needed to stave off the tempest's icy breath.

"He'll be okay for a few moments, surely?" Cherokee said with his hands faced towards the crackling fire. The King's blue lips trembled when he saw the infuriated look in Reaver's eye, that spark that told him he had overstepped the mark and was in danger of being shot.

But the thief could not bring himself to do it. He could not shoot the only man with access to the world's fastest ship, not when his precious Deprivation hung between life and death.

Instead, he began to sip tentatively on the coffee in front of them, watching as the glass desk became inflicted with little brownish water-marks as the men warmed themselves. Ben could not tell whether his pale features were saddened or infuriated; he had rarely spent more than a few moments in Reaver's presence and, on the odd occasion it had been longer, he had seen only blatant disregard for human life on him.

After a while the soldier began to glance around their surroundings – he noticed that the bookcases held thousands of hardbacks that Reaver had probably never read, and that the huge dressers were undoubtedly filled with gemstones that some people would kill to own. He saw the light wood carved perfectly and painted with that majestic red pattern, as if it were royal in the land of furniture rather than a decoration for some rich man's home, the world that many of those pieces had been crafted for.

The arched windows, which were normally covered by that time, still had the red silk curtain at the side and allowed the lightning to flow through, forcing the room to be constantly pulled into light when it was dimmed for a reason. Reaver did not want to see the rain falling outside, even though he would have taken a front row seat on many other nights…

Rain could be considered quite romantic. Deprivation had told him he loved the way it fell, how it made zigzagging trails across the clear glass whilst they sat together, watching the world outside become saturated by the elements. It was hurtful for the thief to watch it without him.

He would not want the leader to be hurt.

"When can I get the boat then? I'm a busy man," Reaver's irritable bark was enough to bring Cherokee's attention back to him and away from the fire, although soon he was back to warming his frozen hands. There was no need to dive straight back into business talk, especially when the one called Deprivation was still 'snoozing' soundly in his bedroom.

It took a good few moments for him to reply, and even then it was not what Reaver wanted to hear, "You're wanted for a lot of crimes, you know. I don't know why you think you can demand things from me after what you tried to do to Albion…what you did to Millfields, no less." Reaver's eyes glinted in the darkness and revealed his apparent fury, yet he allowed the King to continue his little speech. "There have been many complaints about you over the years. Some stretch back to my father's rule. How do you explain how you've lived so long, hm? Those people – they're mostly dead now, and yet you're still alive. What's your trick?"

What was that in Cherokee's eyes? Was it curiousity? Ambition? Perhaps it was a morbid sense of jealousy, one that came from not possessing the same ability as another man? Whatever it was, Reaver could not find the energy to care too much; he just wanted the King's boat, not his friendship.

"Your father was an excellent monarch," the thief found his feet as he spoke, stalking through the dimly lit room with the cane in his hand, "I daresay he may have been the best I've ever seen, granted I've only been subject to seeing Lords rule over our 'precious' little Albion. Are you trying to mimic his Kingship?"

Cherokee's eyes flashed once, his hands clutched over his coffee cup that he had tried to sip from beforehand. He knew that there was a fire burning in Reaver but he had never thought it would verge on the disrespectful.

"What are you implying?!"

"I'm merely observing that you and your brother have both ascended to the throne, and yet we have seen no change in politics or leadership! Perhaps your father was wrong to have you; perhaps it should have fallen to a more suited warrior, such as Walter. But he died under your rule too…"

The King jumped to his feet with a pure fury blazing in his eyes, completely oblivious as to why Reaver had brought the dead warrior into their conversation. Had Walter ever crossed paths with the famed businessman?

Many times, but that was not the point.

"Don't talk about him!"

"There! You do not allow me to speak about Walter, and you insist on talking about my crimes when Deprivation hangs in the balance! I could go on about your misdeeds your 'Highness', but you have no reason to hear about them until I have what I demanded!" his cane slammed on the floor and sent echoes throughout the corridors, where the maids were busy folding clothes, "You shan't stand in the way of his health! I want that ship!"

The need in his eyes was enough for Cherokee. Without thinking he seemed to be nodding his head, agreeing to fund Reaver's watercraft needs until he was satisfied, hoping that it would end at his wants for a boat rather than finding some other way to make their lives a misery.

"Wait, why do you even need a fast boat? Seems a little redundant, you know, considering he's unconscious," Ben suddenly interrupted from his coffee, which he had sufficiently drained over the course of their conversation. Reaver turned with a glint in his fiery depths, a smile dancing on the thin lips he was known for.

"Why else? We're going to the Spire."


	39. Speaking

Moving Deprivation proved to be quite the struggle. Reaver had anticipated that he was at least sixteen stone, accounting for his muscle and his general height, yet when they lifted him he felt more like a ton. They valiantly grappled with his unconscious body all the way down the thief's grand stairs, their eyes fixated on a path that had been pre-determined for him. They would be shot if they dared drop the leader. Reaver would make sure of that.

"Come along men," the tycoon cried behind him as he lovingly prepped the carriage, one that had been donned with fine leather seats and affectionately dusted by the light strokes of luxury, "I'm not going to wait for you all day!"

The world had finally collapsed into what seemed like chaos around them. As they manoeuvred the hefty leader and attempted to fit him snuggly in the carriage, the stormy rage of the elements battered them at every turn. Reaver was quick to shield his snoozing love but for the men, they would have to get wet in the path for their large payment.

When Deprivation had finally been slotted into the carriage, the thief went about proper safety routines so that the ride would be less than dangerous for them. He could not account for the people who would attack them on the way – the disgruntled, unemployed men who wanted just a fraction of what Reaver earned – but he could be sure that Deprivation would not collapsed out of his seat. It was better than nothing.

"Don't fret, love. We'll be on our way to your Spire to get you all healed up, soon enough," he purred softly into the leader's ear whilst he buckled his seat belt, feeling slightly worried when he did not even get a twitch in reply.

When would he open his eyes? When would Reaver finally be permitted to gaze down into the beacons of pure emerald, the very eyes he had fallen in love with and had dreamt about for years? It seemed as though the Shadow Court were playing a cruel joke on him, yet he had been faithful and concise with his latest offerings.

"You'll be right as rain before too long," the murmur was almost to himself, his hands busy with the last security arrangements before he finally turned to his labourers. They had patiently waited there in the growing tempest, hoping that their payment would be worth the struggle and that the thief would not just chuckle warmly at their coldness.

But Reaver could not even think about keeping his money to himself. With what seemed like absent-mindedness, he threw nine huge bags of gold at them and told the driver to set off for Bowerstone, his retreat into the black carriage like a mole burrowing further into the ground.

The journey was less than comfortable. The thief resorted to pulling the curtains over the window in an attempt to stave off the cold, wrapping his arm tightly around his boyfriend so that they could face the winds together. Outside the Balverine watched them with eyes like pinpricks in the night, yellow on black as they quietly stalked the carriage's zigzagging trail and wondered what those apocalyptic horses tasted like. The hunched figure of what seemed like a giant prowled through the hanging treetops which Reaver would have seen, had he not shut the curtains in an effort to protect his Deprivation.

"Not the best day for rain, is it?" he mused quietly to keep the conversation up, "I could think of better days; that drab social gathering, for example! I've not received that many proposals since…since I first started out in Bloodstone! But no, the sun decided to shine on that day, permitting all those lords to suit their daughters to me and offer vast dowries in payment!"

Deprivation twitched. Reaver noticed it out of the corner of his eye, his excitement peaking whilst he turned to face the sleeping leader and wonder whether the trip was necessary. Perhaps he had finally awoken? Perhaps the sleep was truly a Spire-Leader affair, one that had not befallen them during their first adventure and he had found no need to mention?

He was deflated when there was no more movement. Deprivation's twitching was not a sign that he had awoken, but rather a cruel joke being played on Reaver by an invisible Committee of Laughter. They would have chuckled warmly at his boyish hope.

So would a lot of people, if he thought about it clearly enough.

The journey continued on in silence for a while, in which Reaver removed the curtains so that he could gaze outside. The light splashes of rain that touched him reminded him that he was human, that he was alive – it seemed to be telling him that Deprivation's slumber had not affected him in such a way that, if the need called for it, he could not find another suitor, one who possessed a vast wealth to their name and perhaps more land than Reaver could have hoped for. Normally, he would have been excited at such a thought.

But it was his Deprivation. He did not need a 'Sally Slave-Owner' or a 'Doris Dairy-Farmer.' He needed the mysterious finesse-ridden leader, who had told him on many occasions that their relationship could become threatened by his pull to the Spire.

"You're going to be alright love," he mused quietly to himself with a hand clutched to his forearm, smiling softly as he gazed out of the window, "I'll make sure of it."

And so the carriage rumbled on, noisily making its way through the twisting paths of Millfields as Reaver protected his love. There was a silence that descended on them at that time, a silence that could be considered uncomfortable for any other people, yet the thief could not imagine talking to fill it. What was the point when no one could hear him?

Amber eyes continued to stare through the darkness. For Deprivation, the journey was the beginning of one of his greatest hardships – the beginning of his dedication to Reaver, and proof as to how his brothers would be affected.


	40. Coldness

The docks were bustling with activity by the time Reaver got there, in spite of the storm that still circulated. Wind whipped viciously at the boat's wooden hulls as he strode through the masses, his face set in a stony frown whilst his eyes searched for the King's boat, his hand clutched tightly over his cane until his knuckles turned white.

"Where's that good-for-nothing monarch?" he murmured to himself, "If I didn't know better, I'd say he was trying to humour me!" just as he said that the thief's eyes clapped on to his King, who was busy trying to set up a sufficient guard in his absence. Ben Finn stood beside him with the regular smirk on his face – the smirk that said 'I'm an adventurer, not a soldier' and kept the children asking him inane questions. Reaver hardly paid attention to them as he hurried towards his King, smiling like they were simply friends meeting up for a chat.

"Is the boat ready, then?"

"It will be in a few hours, when the cleaners have finished getting rid of our barnacle problem," Cherokee seemed almost furious that such creatures had invaded his boat's butt, as if they were the true Kings of nature and he had no right to be sailing on their Seven Seas. He hated the way he could not control the elements, could not keep filthy wildlife away when he attempted to create a new adventure.

"Hopefully they'll be quick about it, else my bullets may accidentally find their brains," he sang the warning whilst waving his gun in the air; the same gun that Deprivation had made him all those years ago, and the gun that he had turned on Cherokee's father many times during their friendship. It would have been fitting in the thief suddenly decided to aim for the new King, yet he could not risk the withdrawal of his practical armada.

Within the carriage Deprivation still slept, his eyes still shut as they had been back in Millfields and his mind miles away from Albion. How could the Spire have helped him? When he lay in the clutches of the Corruptor, listening to his father's pathetic excuses for the reason he was being held, although he only wished to see Reaver's pale face again. The leader swore he could see those beautiful features when he closed his eyes, like a strange projection on the moss-covered walls of his prison.

"You are not reading the materials," Chaos commented warily when he noticed his son's quietness, how his hands were clasped within each other rather than on the archaic tome, "I would have hoped that our time together would make you see sense – your blood is key for the Corruptor's survival, and he shall not let you leave this place without indoctrination."

Deprivation's eyes were an emerald fire as he looked at his father, his breath like dragon's flame when he hissed his reply, "Do you think I wish to become its tool? You may be a coward but I am not; I would sooner bend my knee to a Spire intruder than the Corruptor."

And he fell silent again, for what seemed like the millionth time after his capture. He knew that the incessant quiet would never solve the problems between him and his father, much less appease the great master that he was supposed to be serving but, when he thought about it, he cared very little for what tasks the Corruptor needed completing. He wanted to with his Reaver again. At a stretch, he wanted to return to his Spire and brothers, to warn them of the dangers that hid in another realm.

"You cannot continue with this insolence!" Chaos quietly pointed out after hours, or perhaps seconds in that tomb-like chamber. The ex-leader had moved from the crumbled throne to his son's side, where he sat on the grimy steps that many had once walked in worship.

Deprivation flinched away from the man. He could hardly stand the fact they were related, let alone allow him to sit so closely to his side. The lights seemed to dim slightly as the same man stared at his son, the boy he had once cradled as a whimpering baby and cared for as an aspiring Spire-Guard, and now wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. It was a heart-breaking thought.

But he tried not to let that show in his words, "You must give in to the Corruptor, or I fear that your days are severely numbered."

"No one being can destroy a Spire-Guard – if you were half the Spire-Leader I thought you to be, you would have known that."

"It may not be able to destroy, but I can," a sudden change fell upon Deprivation's tanned features, something that sat between both rage and horror as he stared at his father, "I would do it not of my will son, but the will of the thing that has destroyed my life. No matter how I cry it takes my body and…and uses it for its own twisted deeds!"

Deprivation's fist clenched tightly in his gloves, his blue tunic nearly twisting in the immense rage he felt, "You lie!"

"It took from me my Enlightenment, my people and…my Wilbur!" again the leader stepped backwards, that time bringing his fist to his face like Chaos would soon launch an attack, "It took from me the most precious possessions to my life, and still it demanded my sacrifice in the place of its 'benefits.' If the same were to happen to you, my son, I would no longer have love in my heart for life."

He could not understand how something could take over a Spire-Guard so easily, yet Deprivation felt fear stab him as deeply as a swordsman's blade. He knew that his father told no lies. That did not mean he forgave him for the deep treachery of murder, but he understood that it was out of his hands for the brief time he had been hypnotised.

"Finally! The boat's just about prepared," Cherokee strode into the little area Reaver had designated 'clean enough to sit in,' beaming at the announcement, "Let's get Deprivation on board and we can be on our way."


	41. On the Horizon

The boat was a marvel to behold on the outside, but deeply within Reaver could find faults. He had hired men to haul his precious Deprivation on board and expected his room to resemble his luxurious chambers, although when they got there they found naught that the thief could admire.

Walls were toothpick thin in his opinion, the only decoration being the splinters that hung haphazardly from their places. There was an old wardrobe in the corner that looked as though it had been made by a blind craftsman whilst, somewhere against the adjacent wall, an equally ancient chest of drawers heaved with all sorts of festering bugs and left over clothes. Reaver sniffed abhorrently as the men became settling his lover on the unsuitable bed, his hand on Deprivation's whilst his eyes glanced around the abysmal settings.

"This isn't quite what I had in mind for the King's ship," he admitted quietly once the men had scuttled off, their pockets heavier than they had been upon arrival, "I was expecting more…class? I suppose we shouldn't complain too much, love; he's the King after all, and I wouldn't suspect he does much interior designing by himself."

Further on the horizon, painted black against a stormy sky just as Reaver's manor had been, the Spire stood. It seemed to be waiting for the return of its precious Spire-Leader, the one man who had sought for its redemption after such a long time of ruin, and inside sat the elusive Spire-Guard descendants, their eyes locked onto the sea as if they were expecting something to happen.

Solace sat at the very head of his team, further at the front where Lucien had once hauled his recruits. He kept his eyes unwavering on the horizon despite his tiredness whilst Theresa watched the men oddly, blindness not proving to be a handicap to her abilities as she watched them stay so silent.

"My brother, for what reason do we sit so soundly?" Absolution asked from his seat, since he had been appointed as deputy soon after Deprivation's departure, "The Spire cries out through our veins, yet we sit like ducks in this place. Do you think us to be doing its bidding?"

"Silence! The light in the Spire craves for our attendance – this is a fact, though there must be one other that it weeps for." He stood from the ground, his feet beckoning him to stand on the very edge of the pier and gaze through the serrated drapes of the Spire. Rock had been carved out to reveal a small opening long ago, back when Lucien had first arrived to their beloved home and announced his plans for it, although Solace had found it hard to admit it was a nice finishing touch to their world.

Absolution allowed him a few moments of reflection before he spoke again, and even then he tried his best to be gentle, "Your mind grows strained under the loss of Deprivation, brother. Perhaps it would be a good alternative to rest your weary thoughts?"

"I do not know the sweet kiss of sleep until the Spire has been dealt with."

"The Spire's needs require our full attention! If you have refused to sleep until they are satisfied, sleep shall have evaded you for the larger fragment of the year!" the voice came from Enjoyment at that point, who had spent a huge part of his time weeping for the departure of their leader. He was the more heartfelt of the men; when the Spire twisted under the weight of magical exploitation, Enjoyment felt the sharp sting of its pain and wept when the construction could not. Deprivation had forever patted his head throughout the nights he could not sleep, had found himself in the man's alcove when he was younger to try and hush him into sweet rest, and a few times when he was an adult they would discuss his desires for marriage or he would continue the childish bedtime routine.

The leader had been his rock. It was a shame that he had left them in favour for Reaver, but they had to live through the pain and find a reason to battle on.

Solace turned with his eyes ablaze, "As leader of our team, it requires me above all others! Deprivation stayed standing night after night; his head never fully knew the effects of a good rest yet he did not whine, as he knew that his position had been both an honour and a birthing curse!"

"And Deprivation would not wish you to carry on his regime of self-torture!" Absolution leapt to his feet to grip his new leader's sleeve, the very act calming as he led him back to his seat on the frozen pier, "He loves you, Solace. Would you honour his memory by resting your heels?"

Solace's sapphire eyes looked up at his friend, glistening with a perfect hurt that Absolution could read like a book. He had been torturing himself day and night for the loss of their precious leader, his acts of self-loathing like a punishment against him for allowing Deprivation to leave, yet the brothers had all but confessed their blame on that very man for his own departure. Solace felt as though the effects of strain were suddenly stabbing him like a spear.

"You would not think ill of me if I retire to my alcove?"

"My brother, we could only think more of you as a leader if you rest yourself for our benefit," like clucking hens the men stood around their leader, their hands on his arms as if he needed aid in getting to bed, "If you are to awaken soon enough, then so be it. For now you must sleep."

"But…he comes to us…"

"Who comes, Solace?" Absolution's voice was as smooth as honey as he gently lifted his brother up the steps, although his eyes danced with curiousity through each of his words, "Who comes that you wish for us to welcome?"

Theresa knew that he meant the darkness, and she knew that he would not sleep easily until they had their brother deeply within their arms. Too long had she allowed Solace to go unwary about his state, too long had she hidden the truth from him; he knew that Deprivation was in jeopardy.

But she could not allow more of them to fall to the Corruptor.


	42. A Perfect World

Deprivation was dreaming. It was a small relief that he could close his eyes in the prison and still find solace within his thoughts, but his heart ached when he reminded himself that it was all an illusion. He wished for the serene layout around him to be a reality, that his body truly lay in the cool grass of some long-forgotten meadow and the gentle lull of a nearby lute really played, the strings of which were plucked gently by the man he had returned for.

"Morning love," Reaver chirped from his seat, a lone stump that had at one point been a mighty oak, "You're just in time to hear me play. It's mastery at its finest, if I do say so myself."

The Spire-born warrior found his features contort in a grin, smiling broadly as he clambered from his resting place and made confident strides towards his lover. Faeries seemed to dance in the soft atmosphere whilst he walked, their song like nothing he had ever heard before, but the only thing Deprivation was capable of comprehending was the details of Reaver; the man who had captivated his heart, and who he longed to be wrapped in the slender arms of.

It was a matter of moments before he sat beside his lover, his voice fragile like he would disappear if he spoke too loudly, "You are mastery, my love. To compare you to anything except yourself would be unjust – no, perhaps even disrespectful – and to compare you to a master would be the lowest insult."

"Aren't you the chirpy one," with a smile on his face and the heart-tattoo almost flaring, Reaver planted a soft kiss on his lover's tanned forehead, "What's got you in such an affable mood?"

"Oh, I do not know – perhaps the air, the nature, the company I have found myself with," another smile stretched on Deprivation's face before he took Reaver's hand, kissing it softly like a gentleman would to his early lady-friend. The thief hid a blush as best he could but, when someone's complexion was as pale as his, it was difficult to hide the creeping scarlet hue that rose from his cheeks.

Any moment he could have woken up from that dream, and he would find himself torn away from the one man he loved most. Again he would open his eyes, breathe in that salty air that drifted aimlessly through his cabin and look down at the slumbering face underneath him, but remember all too quickly that it had no chance of waking with him. Reaver did not want to leave the perfect world. He wanted to stay there, with his precious Deprivation sat so happily beside him, speaking as though there were nothing to fear and he had never fallen victim to sleep.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, you know," was all he could muster as a reply, before he had suddenly leapt from his place and strode confidently to a glistening lake. It was not huge and certainly not the type of arena he could imagine boat races in, but it was certainly large enough to splash on his face.

Deprivation smiled. He had caught himself admiring the sleek curves of Reaver's slender body, the way that his large white coat seemed to fit so elegantly around him and how skilfully he kept that hat on his head. So often had he spent his free time trying to recall those minute details yet, when he thought about how the thief must have transformed during his absence, he found himself far too depressed to carry on thinking.

Reaver soon noticed his stares, and replied to them with a large wave of water leaping from his arm, "If I'm getting wet, then you are too!" the warrior could not move quickly enough for the wave, as soon it was crashing down on him and drenching the seat he perched on. With a screech he leapt forward, clasping Reaver's coat and finding his vengeance with an expertly placed arm-swipe. It sent another assault of water at the thief to put him in an equally soaked position, but more so than the warrior had been.

"An eye for an eye, my love," a mischievous grin crept across Deprivation's face when he spoke, his voice no more than a deep rattle as he tried to supress laughter, "I am suitably soaked, and now so are you. Care for a duel to prove the better man?"

"I wouldn't want to put you up for humiliation, love," Reaver chuckled in reply before he wrapped his arms around the man's neck, embracing him warmly in a way he wish he could. It took a split second for Deprivation to return his gesture.

And they stayed there like that for the entirety of their dream, nothing needing to be said except the occasional, 'I love you,' and a few strangely placed, 'I wish you would come back.' Reaver's eyes glistened with tears as he imagined having to leave their safe haven, to face the harsh reality of Deprivation's unconsciousness without the warrior by his side. They had spent fifty one years apart. Was that not enough to make the fates look on them kindly? Was Deprivation taking the fall for Reaver's actions? The thief could not imagine anything more upsetting than having been the one to put his lover in such a state.

It was the warrior who spoke first, "I can feel the effects of our dream…wearing. No longer does the wind embrace my cheeks." Reaver noticed that the gentle breeze of before had in fact stopped blowing, and the little faeries it had carried were withering slowly on the grass. Even that had changed from a crisp green to a dirty brown, as if some sort of fire had raged whilst they were locked within each other's arms.

Well, with the way they were so absorbed in each other, it could very well have…

"Don't go."

"If it were my decision, I would never leave the comfort of your arms again," Deprivation gazed sorrowfully into his lover's eyes, "And I would have never fallen under such…such vile influences. Pray that I return quickly, my love. Pray that the Spire seeks out my soul and saves it from the Corruptor."

"Is he responsible for all this mess?!" Reaver's eyes were suddenly ablaze with fury, his thin hands gripping Deprivation's wrists like a vice, "Tell him to show his face – no one steals Reaver's suitor, no one!"

"May you hear yourself, my love? This thing does not possess gender, nor does it possess anything that might make it a goodlier thing. You could not fight it with your mortal weapons. Unless…"

"Unless what?!" the scene around them was fading, drifting into nothingness as the men felt themselves being pulled apart. It was an unknown force that drove them away; the warrior wanted to cry when he felt the slight tugs at Reaver's hands, saw the way that his lover's eyes were suddenly alight with panic.

"The weapon I crafted – it is made of a Spire-Leader, and therefore is not mortal. Perhaps you could…" a screech was heard in the blackness, "My love, there is no time to lose. Be off with you to the Spire, save me so that we might enjoy millennia in each other's arms."

Reaver managed to peck Deprivation's lips softly before they were yanked apart, horrified to see what looked like black tentacles snaking around his warrior's waist, "What do I do?!"

"Solace shall know!" was the reply, screamed through a shroud of gathering darkness that no light could penetrate, "Speak to him! Keep your weapon safe, my love…keep yourself free from the Corruptor's grasp!"

With a start, the thief woke up. Instantly he could smell the hauntingly familiar tang of sea air, hear the gulls screeching overhead as they circled what could only be their dinner. Beside him Deprivation lay unmoved, yet Reaver found himself almost thankful of the fact.

_He's not gone in physicality, _the thief thought mournfully as he clambered from the double bed, his back aching as if he had just been lying on one made of nails. With a shaking hand he took his trusty weapon that sat on one of the weapon's racks, the sleek gun that had been made all those years ago and looked after as though it were holy.

_I'll save you, Deprivation. You can count on that._


	43. Sleeping Intruder

The cabin sat still for lack of people, trapped in an unending silence that seemed almost deafening. Deprivation still lay on the sheepskin double bed, the rickety legs no more sturdy than pencils holding up a Balverine, whilst around him echoed the voices of the past. Lives, pirates, criminals, warriors, guards; they had all died in that very chamber he slept in, so peacefully as though he were truly sleeping, so still that one might have thought he were dead.

In the corner of the room, the wardrobe door stirred restlessly. Dust wheezed out of it like it had not been opened for many centuries, the clothes within parted to keep its cargo within so safely enclosed, like she would choke if she dare step outside and into the crisp clean air of the sea.

"Deprivation?" the voice was small, "Deprivation, are you awake?" still his eyes did not twitch, did not even flutter as someone staggered out of the claustrophobic wardrobe and took a look at the meagre surroundings. The resulting gasp would have made Cherokee chuckle, before he became enraged when he looked down at who had dared make that noise.

Charlene had not meant to go against her father's wishes. It was on a whim that she had clambered on to the cargo-carriages that lined up outside the courtyard, and on an adventurous bout of defiance that she had snuck aboard the ship when it was being prepared. With ease she slipped past the maids and sailors as they began to apply their finishing touches, diving into the wardrobe when a woman had come in to spread the sheets of the cabin bed and had led strange men in behind her.

Forced to watch as Reaver spoke so softly to his sleeping boyfriend, Charlene had devised a clever plan on how she would attempt to wake the man up herself. It seemed obvious that the thief was not worth waking for, was not worth the grace of Deprivation's emerald eyes and did not care enough to stay with him at every waking moment, for at that time he had gone in search of an elusive flannel for the warrior's head. The child would have never allowed her beloved to be alone in such a precarious state, one of which they had no idea about.

"You've been asleep for too long. You have to wake up now so you can get something to eat, before Reaver comes back!" in her childish mind, she could not comprehend how Deprivation would want to be around his beloved for every waking moment. She did not understand the fine details of love, the unspoken words that had passed between them and the years of longing that flowed through their veins, yet to be satisfied as another tragedy tore them apart. She would never comprehend just how much the warrior loved his thief.

After all, Charlene's idea of a healthy romance stemmed from the novel Norm and Aggie.

"Come on!" she began to shake him as Deprivation soundly slept, his body too heavy to lift whilst she threatened him with water, "You're not supposed to sleep this long! You've got to wake up – quick, before Reaver gets back! He'll shoot you if you make him mad, father says so!"

Unbeknownst to young Charlene, her greatest fear was standing by the doorway. He had not seen her crawl out of the wardrobe nor had he the patience to learn how she had got there, but with a hand trembling in rage he gripped the gun out of its holster. The thief cocked it as he brought it slowly to his head, one thought on how he would claim her death as an accident rather than a well-placed shot.

"What are you doing?!" his voice made a sound before his gun could, causing the child to leap from his boyfriend's still form and turn to stare in fear, "Why are you tampering with Deprivation? Keep your grubby little fingers away from him!" like a clucking hen Reaver jumped towards his lover, his gaze frantic as he began to smooth out the creases and readjust Deprivation's tunic.

His shout was so loud that he was heard on the deck, where Cherokee and Ben were discussing how they would keep Logan safe from the sailors. They stormed down the creaking stairs with the same vigour of warriors charging into battle, shouting as they tore through the hallways and charged towards Deprivation's cabins.

"What's going on?!" Cherokee demanded when he finally burst through the door, his eyes avoidant of Charlene whilst he glared at Reaver, "What's all the noise for?"

"Well, my 'King;' it seems that your little termite thinks that she's more suited for Deprivation's care than me. I come in here with a flannel for his head and there she is, shaking him like she's in charge!" he spoke with such fury in his voice that he seemed like a wild thing rather than a man, yet the King could not hear anything else apart from his Charlene.

With furious eyes, he looked down to peer at the girl he thought he had left behind. She trembled with fear as they gazed at one another, wondering whether or not her father would fly into a rage at her presence.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry Father – I fell on the carriage and, when I got here, I was curious about the ship. The maid…the maid misplaced my frock, and I was looking for it-"

"That's enough lies, Charlene. You're not doing yourself any favours by making things up right in front of me. Go to the deck. I'll deal with you later."

She ran from the room with tears in her eyes, knowing that she would be severely reprimanded for the wrong she had done. Reaver wanted to run after her, to demand a more suitable punishment, but he found himself too captivated by Deprivation's ordeal to think on such petty thoughts. There would be time for punishments later.

There would be time for much later.


	44. Thievery

Solace could not sleep. It had been many weeks since he felt the cooling touch of rest stroke him, had his mind weaken under the black abyss that was unconsciousness and fall victim to it voluntarily; for once, he wished to be weak again. He wished to close his eyes and perhaps never open them again.

"Is there a problem with our brother?" Enjoyment asked Absolution as he sat outside the gnarled alcove door, twisted as if it were an Oak root tearing through the black stone ground, "He has been out of sorts for some time. Must we suffer as our brothers leave us, Absolution? Must we weep with the Spire whilst our very traditions seem to…vanish?"

"You are far too cynical, young Enjoyment. Keep your smile easy, and do not mention the prospect of our brother's departure to anyone but yourself. We have lost both Desolation and Deprivation – Spire forbid that we lose Solace as well."

The conversation echoed effortlessly into the resting Spire-Leader's room, as if it intended to tear him away from all hope of peace and confront him mercilessly with the evidence of their breaking. Deprivation had awarded the team to him. The most notable man of their generation had entrusted their future to him, asked him to keep his mind clear and his heart pure in the face of his departure, and yet Solace seemed to do nothing to foster the faith Deprivation had. He could not even rally the troops when all the grieving had been dealt with; their leader had been quick to go about Desolation's funeral, although the mourning had been a dragged out process to take many decades.

With all of those small details out of the way, why had Solace found nothing that he seemed capable of doing? The troops needed something to rally for – without Deprivation's careful guidance, they had fallen to the abysmal thinking of lesser men. Could all leaders be faced with such decline?

"Brother," with a heavy heart he rose from the little alcove, wandering almost aimlessly to a half-arched patch at the side of his room. It was not meant to be there but, since Deprivation had enjoyed watching the sunrise and that room had previously belonged to him, he saw no need to fix it until harsher weather came about. Even then, he had made excuses as to why he would keep it.

"_Brother,"_ the whisper replied to him, granted Solace could not tell whether it was his mind or Deprivation making contact. He slammed his hand down on the serrated windowsill underneath him, eyes ablaze as he scanned the murky sea that rippled with the raindrops, before he tried to find the voice again.

"Brother, is that you? Deprivation? Speak to me, my brother! Grant me the knowledge that you kept so closely to your heart, for our men are perishing under my rule!"

Tears of shame stung his eyes when he made the admission. It felt as though he had let not only himself down, but the ancient Spire-Guards that he had never been able to meet. He thought that far beyond the realms of their existence lay their families, their friends and Desolation, watching as he floundered haplessly under the weight of his new found responsibilities.

Moments passed, and then, "_Brother, heed my words…"_

"Speak them, Deprivation. I listen with the same vigour of your mentorship."

"_The horizon beckons daybreak…with daybreak beckons thievery…" _a growl interrupted the soft whisper, granted it was more a sigh than anything else, "_Thievery brings hope of resurrection…I have foreseen…terrible things…"_

Solace was fearful as his brother's voice changed, seemed to become one with the elements around him and grow weaker with each syllable, "What must I do to protect our brothers? Does our Spire need to have more defence?"

"_No, chick…the Darkness, the Corruption…protect our Spire-Master, protect our brothers…the weapon of thievery…keep it…secure…" _another sigh passed and, like it had never really been there, Deprivation's voice seemed to disappear on the breeze. It floated away airily as Solace screamed for him to return, a plea that fell on deaf ears for its recipient but was noticed by the men waiting outside.

Absolution threw open the door of his leader's alcove, allowing it to glow blue to his touch as it so often had before, "Brother, for what reason do you scream?! Are there enemies? Men, collect the weapons!" without hesitation he gripped the trusty master katana behind his back, his furious expression something that Solace had come to both love and respect over their time.

"Calm your fury, my brother; there was reason enough for my scream, but for the call of enemies it did not come," reluctantly Absolution responded to his leader, though he had to remind himself that his full loyalty to the Code meant he had to, "Our brother…our leader spoke to me."

"You have become restless with little sleep; our brother has left the Spire, Solace. He can no longer commune with us."

"It was he! I know it in my heart to be true."

"And how does your conviction seek justification?"

As if Solace were sizing up to an enemy of the Spire, he turned and puffed his chest forward. With a stance bearing that unmistakable intimidation he leaned forward, bared a furious expression on his face before his voice choked, "He called me 'Chick.'"

Absolution's eyes became wide. Just as if he had seen Deprivation's very ghost, he dropped his sword to the floor with a clatter, his jaw almost following it as he stared at his brother in disbelief. Their leader had often called his deputy 'Chick' – it had been meant to comfort him about his childhood fear of poultry, formed from the fact a loose chicken had once tried to peck his eyes out after it found its way into the Spire.

It was also why Solace's favourite meal was grilled chicken…

"What must we do to please our brother, if it were truly his voice that spoke and not a pretender?"

"We must await the thief's arrival," Solace turned to stare out at the unbroken horizon, spying that grey fleck that would bring about change, "Only he holds what we must use."


	45. Give My Soul

Reaver held his gun closely to his chest as he looked at the sea in front of him, the grand mastery of the Spire looming on the baby pink horizon. He thought about all the things he could have been doing at that moment – the gatherings, the people and the deals – but realised that he was more content to be on that journey with Deprivation, despite their urgency to make him awaken.

Love came once in a lifetime. For Reaver, those lifetimes had trickled by with the memory of his lost, and how he had come so close to having what others craved to possess. The warrior in the cabin was his new lifetime's Victoria; he was the woman he had lost in the rendition of a man, although her beauty was nothing compared to Deprivation's subtle attraction.

"We're getting closer with every minute," Ben muttered from his seat, a wooden figurine in hand to occupy himself with whilst the world seemed to fade into the background. His hair brushed wildly into his eyes as he imagined their adventure, and how it would all come to a head some time soon.

He had a feeling that it would, at least.

Charlene was in solitary confinement in her father's chambers, where she had been issued an assortment of etiquette books plus a huge wealth of gowns to try on. Her soft hands moved almost independently of herself as she read through the black and white texts, wondering why it was her fault that her father expected more of her behaviour. How could she break the shackles of his oppression? That question remained a mystery however much she thought on it.

And slumbering as he had done for countless days, Deprivation lay within his cabin. The rickety double bed underneath him creaked in protest of his weight, loud enough to echo yet not to be heard to mortal ears, whilst a gentle lull of sea air whispered through the porthole, whistling a merry tune as though it were sending him to rest.

But the warrior had no rest. He paced within the true prison he had been captured in, the true Hell he faced in light of his hostage situation and in front of the man who loved him dearly. Deprivation wished to see his Reaver again. With fury he slapped a hand across the font of treachery, his eyes ablaze with regret as he imagined his lover's pain.

"You must surrender yourself to the Darkness if you ever wish to leave," Chaos sighed for what felt like the thousandth time, brushing his black hair to the side as he stared at his son, "It is a harsh world that we live in, and a cruel deal that must be made. It cannot be brushed to the side like…like a foolish queen without the aid of her husband."

The Spire-Leader turned towards his father with a furious gaze, "Silence! Do not speak of such noble things, father. You have stained your own hands." He would never take his father's words to heart again, not after such a long time apart and such a horrifying mark against Chaos' name.

Again the warrior sighed, but he could do no more. They had sat within that darkened chamber for weeks it seemed, looking out into the blackness that held no tone of variation to it, nothing but the few sconces that lined the walls and gave them some form of sight. Flame licked the moss-covered walls as silently as those men waited, though for what was still a mystery.

After what seemed like an age, Deprivation could take the silence no more, "When shall your master reveal itself? I would favour to die as a warrior rather than a waiter; we must take this battle to its throat!"

"It shall reveal himself when it feels as though you shall give yourself, and no sooner."

"Must I be doomed to servitude? For your life I would have expected such, but for mine I have given nothing to it! We…we…" at a loss for words, Deprivation sat on the steps beside his father, allowing him to rest a gloved hand against his shoulder whilst he thought back to home. He imagined Reaver sitting against his bedroom's doorframe, his face twisted in a woeful expression as he waited for Deprivation's recovery. The mere thought brought a tear to his battle-hardened eyes.

And his heart twisted in pain when he imagined never holding Reaver's hands again. There was an emptiness in the pit of his stomach though he fought against it, an emptiness that had long gnawed away at him and left him a hollow shell of a man, yet he could do nothing to shake it lest he give his essence to the Corruptor. He had vowed to never become like his father. That vow was longer than his attachment to Reaver could ever be, granted his thoughts about breaking it would never see that they were together.

Chaos knew that there was nothing he could say, but that did not mean he did not find words, "Do you wish to sleep?"

"I am a child no longer." Deprivation peered at his father with venom in his eyes, "You speak as though I am."

"My fatherly affection has not dissipated because you have grown, son. You are still that mewling babe to me, no matter how many hours you spend perfecting your techniques – you are my Wilbur."

Whatever protest Deprivation had caught at the back of his throat, disallowing him from speaking as he gazed into his father's eyes. Those beautiful irises were something he had adored over the years; he once thought that they were a rival to his own dazzling emerald, granted every Spire-Guard he knew thought differently.

"If I were to give my soul, would that mean I would have my Reaver?" his question was cautious, guarded, as if he thought that his father would laugh in his face for asking such a thing.

But Chaos felt sadness in his heart when he replied, "If you gave your soul, you would no longer care to have your Reaver."


	46. Bring Him Forth

Solace leaned outside of the Spire's window, his eyes set upon the ship that fast approached. With hastened breath he called his men to the docks, running alongside them as if he had just seen in ghost in need of interrogating, panting through gritted teeth like he were heading into a harsh battle.

"My brother, for what reason do you bring us?" Absolution asked though he received no reply; instead, Solace simply pushed him forward to the docks, where his other brothers were impatiently queuing and asking for reasons to their sudden requirement.

The Spire-Leader stood tall at the front of his straight row of men, his eyes still fixated on the ship that they had not yet spied. With caution he clasped the sword on his back, as if he were untrusting that the vessel brought his brother but rather, an army of things they could not possibly imagine.

"Quickly," Reaver barked at the sailors bringing his Deprivation to the deck, "You've got to put your back into it! Don't you dare drop him!" like he were a slave trader, the immortal leaned forward and cracked something similar to a whip in his hands, though in reality it was just an old piece of leather he had found on a discarded barrel. He could not tell if it was even high quality leather…

"Let them do their jobs Reaver," Ben growled as he passed another tired sailor, the same one who had woken up early for the thief's breakfast, "You're not helping them by yelling."

"You focus on what you're good at, my dear boy, and I'll show you exactly what the riffraff need to do their jobs. One shouldn't tell me how to get the most out of my employees," another crack of the leather made them quickly flurry with Deprivation's body, still as lifeless as when they had set about the journey.

Reaver could not stand the icy stillness of it all. He could not begin to imagine a life without his warrior, a life which he had lived for many centuries before but had somewhat dissipated after their parting. The world had crumbled when Deprivation left the first time; imagine a world in which Reaver could not bark at his employees or tell them that he would generously end their life, all because he had lost a man he thought had never existed.

The Spire-Guards were wary of intrusion. When they saw the boat on the horizon – indeed, the very moment they thought it could have belonged to a pirate rather than the already known Reaver – they clasped their swords in a similar manner to Solace, their eyes fixated on it as its solid frame came into their Spire. Theresa appeared beside them but only for a second, as she had sensed many times before that their Deprivation was in turmoil.

"If he's under the Corruptor's influence, we can do no more," she whispered into Solace's ear before she went past, not bothering to offer him an explanation whilst she took her place on the very edge of the gnarled, black marble dock. Her hooded figure was the like the messenger of death.

Solace feared that the boat brought that very same message.

"My brother, is it our leader who resides on that vessel?" Despair asked with his eyes glittering, as if he were contemplating a dishonourable death of suicide by their beloved brother, "Is it his body that lay there or a dream I am having? Oh Spire, do you take our brother from us?" a sob sounded on his lips for a moment, almost as though he were close to tears.

At that moment, Solace wanted to turn and comfort his brothers, although that was all but impossible in their strange situation. He knew that they were hurting despite their unique genes – there was more he could say to calm them than he knew but, with the vessel so quickly entering their domain and their lady so patiently waiting on the docks, he decided it would be best to wait until they knew what they were dealing with.

How Deprivation had caused such strain in his absence…

"Ah!" it was the thief's voice that came to them first, cheerful despite their horrifying circumstances, "I was hoping we'd bump into you here – Solace, was it?" the Spire-Leader gave him a grimace in reply, although he did finish it off with a respectable bow and an outstretched hand.

His voice came out in a shadow of its former self, "You have come to this Spire for a reason; may it be that you have found yourself in a spot of bother, or that our brother finds greater illness in your arms? Speak Reaver; speak so that all may hear."

Reaver had never really liked Solace. It may have been his close relationship with Deprivation or the fact that he had been with him during their separation, but the thief had felt some sense of competition with him. That sense disappeared as he looked into the man's sapphire eyes and, as if everything they had against each other suddenly vanished, felt a sense of fellowship with him.

He had as little idea to what was happening to their beloved as he did, and that made them linked friends for the entirety of their situation.

"Deprivation's in a bit of a spot; he fainted a while ago and hasn't woken up since. You can imagine how much of an inconvenience that is, so I'd be simply delighted if you can do your little Spire rituals and wake him up. Before sunset would be absolutely splendid, if you don't mind."

"Deprivation has fainted? That…that has never happened to a Spire-Guard," Solace walked to stand beside his lady, but he found it horribly impersonal as he gazed up to the ship.

"Well it's true, and unless you can remedy the situation he'll remain that way," the man felt as though he were growing an extra limb with how hard Solace stared at him, yet he could not deny that the thought of the situation's uniqueness caused him little comfort.

"Bring him forth to us," he sighed, "Bring him to his alcove so that we might tend to him. We must consult with our Spire."


End file.
